Another Girl, Another Planet

by Lou Antonelli

  With the start of construction of the Mars Base, the joint administration concluded robots were more needed there, and manufacturing shifted to the new colony.

  Truth be told, after 20 years, the Moon colony looked more and more like a self-contained Earth-side city―“Almost like Houston,” as Johnny Carson said, “but with better air-conditioning.” And all the people flocking there from Earth were bothered by the robots. I was in high school in the early 1970s, and I saw the reports. People were disquieted by the service robots at Moon facilities, especially as the Walt Disney Corporation helped in the development of a more life-like appearance.…

  I jumped in my chair as Sherry walked in. “I just wanted you to know, the man who was beaten up in the Hideaway last night is in really bad shape,” she said. “There will be some kind of investigation.”

  “That seems logical,” I said. “Who runs the police force here?”

  “The chief constable is a Brit, Andy Coltingham.” She stared at me. “The bartender hit him with a baseball bat?”

  “Cricket bat, and yes, pretty hard. He was hot. The drunk really was abusing the poor girl—I mean, android.”

  “It was still just an android,” Sherry said.

  “I didn’t know that at first,” I said. “Maybe he reacted the way he did because …” I paused to gather my thoughts. Sherry looked at me.

  “You know, it’s just a visceral emotional reaction,” I said. “Like you would react to anybody being abused.”

  Sherry’s voice sounded very thin. “They are so life-like,” she said. “Like I said, the man was hurt pretty bad. He may die.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I wanted you to be up-to-date. The constable’s office wants to talk to you, as an eyewitness,” she said. “They’re waiting outside. Can I show them in?”

  I shoved some papers aside and sat back in my seat. “Sure, why not, I was just about done for the day. This …” I said, tapping the binder “… will take me days to read.”

  “I’ll send them in.”

  An elderly man in a rumpled coat, and clutching an old hat slowly walked in, followed by a much younger man in a police uniform with a badge, and a holster on his belt.

  The older man smiled as he stuck out his hand, showing badly receded gums—the signs of a constant smoker. “Mister Shuster, I’m Chief Constable Coltingham, and this is Deputy Constable Mattern.”

  The deputy constable had a florid face and an enormous hand.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said. It was like shaking a Christmas ham.

  With his receding gray hair and eyeglass style firmly stuck in the Anthony Eden era, Andy Coltingham looked more like a retired bureaucrat than a law enforcement officer. Mattern had a florid face and strawberry-blond hair. Coltingham was in civilian dress, while Mattern wore a modified space service blue uniform with law enforcement insignia.

  “Won’t you have a seat?”

  “Mr. Shuster, I’m sorry our first meeting has to be on business,” he said. “I’m the sheriff, as it were, in these precincts. I’m sorry to drop in unannounced, but the man who was beaten in the Hideaway last night is in very serious condition.”

  “I understand. It all happened very suddenly, before anyone had time to react.”

  “You’re from New England, correct?” he asked.

  “Yes, and you’re from Old England. We should be mutually intelligible, then.”

  He laughed. “Your accent and lilt reminds me a bit of the Welsh.”

  “Never been further afield than New York,” I said. “I mean, on the big blue marble.”

  I paused. “Pardon me, Mr. Coltingham, but your name sounds familiar.”

  “I’m a member of the Triple Cross Club. I’ve been in the space program for 30 years now. I started in satellite communications construction for the Moon Base, and later joined the constabulary. Ten years ago, when I reached 65, I considered retirement, but instead it was suggested I take the post here.” He adjusted his glasses. “They wanted someone experienced to set the new department on a firm footing. I took the post. The base is so much smaller, and the stress considerably less. I’m essentially semi-retired.”

  “You’ve been in the space program since before I was born!”

  “Make me feel ancient, young man!” he laughed.

  “I read a story about you and the so-called Triple Cross Club, then, from the UPI back in the Boston Record-American,” I said. “That’s why your name sounded familiar.”

  “There’s perhaps a dozen of us,” Coltingham said. “It’s been a long time.” He looked up. “But I’m not retired yet, and I have a job to do.”

  “Sorry! What can I tell you about last night?”

  Mattern pulled out a narrow notepad and looked very seriously at me. “Devil of a way to start your tour, wasn’t it?”

  “My hosts wanted to show me a good time. It was a long trip, and I knew I would be very busy once I sat down to my duties,” I said. “And I have been.”

  “I understand; you’re so understaffed now. I’ll run through this as fast as I can.” Mattern pulled out a pen. “Who were you out with?”

  “Jon Crane, Mickey Cardinale, and Pete Jackson,” I said. “They were all quite up-front about wanting to be nice to me because of dealing with this office.”

  “No one can kick about a friendly evening of beer and darts,” Mattern said. “You didn’t know these men Earthside?”

  “First time I ever laid eyes on them.”

  “Why did you go out with them, then?”

  “Sherry Canning vouched for them,” I said. “Brought them over to my apartment, in fact.”

  “But she didn’t come?”

  “Have you been inside that smoke-filled den of inequity? The only women in there aren’t women, I learned.”

  “Ah, yes, the androids. Three of them, aren’t there?”

  “Yes. I didn’t realize one was an android until the drunk stubbed out his cigarette on her hand,” I said.

  Coltingham interjected. “Well, you crossed the uncanny valley in fine form.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about, and he could obviously tell that from my face.

  “You look puzzled,” he said. He looked at Mattern. “Pardon me, Paul, while I educate our American friend.”

  “No, go right ahead, sir.”

  “The early robots that came out of Professor Asimov’s laboratory were very much mechanical men—all steel and glass, sleek like American cars of the time. But even by the time of the Cuban Robot Crisis, they were looking more and more life-like. They had become androids, robots in human form. This was exploited by the Communist agitators who infiltrated the factories and reprogrammed the units,” Coltingham said. “They realized the new style robots, what we call androids today, could be used to mimic human soldiers—and they did.”

  “There were reports some of Batista’s soldiers couldn’t tell they were being attacked by robot soldiers when they were dug in at the Bay of Pigs,” he continued. “After Castro and Guevara were executed, and Professor Asimov dismissed from his post, all Earthside manufacturing stopped. The robots already on hand were put on a transport to the Moon base. I saw them when they arrived, and I could tell their design was becoming even more life-like,” he said. “Unless you were up close, yes, it was hard to tell they weren’t real people.”

  “I’ve read there was actually an economic boom because of the cheap robot labor,” I said.

  “The Moon Boom, yes. Not only were there enough for construction, they could be used in service capacities. That’s when we began to see them in retail stores and restaurants. You heard the old joke about the first restaurant at the Moon Base?”

  “No, and I’m sure I’m going to regret this.”

  He chuckled. “It closed after 90 days. The food was excellent, but it had no atmosphere.”

  I groaned at the bad joke.

  “Actually, the first restaurant was a White Castle,�
�� Coltingham continued. “The crowds were astounding, I had to direct crowd control.”

  Coltingham settled back in his chair. “People didn’t like getting their food from machines, as it were—people like a smile and some chit-chat. So the base administrators called in some folks from the Disney Company, who had experience with audio-animatronic displays at Disneyland.”

  “Never heard of it,” I said. “What’s audio-animatronics?”

  “They’re long-gone now. They were animated tableaus, where the wax-like figures would move and give educational speeches. The best known one was the Hall of American Presidents. They ran on old servo-mechanisms, nothing like what Asimov and his gang developed. They were pre-programmed and couldn’t walk; their trick, like at Madame Tussauds, was to look life-like, except they used silicone instead of wax.”

  “The Disney folks came up to the Moon as the last of the people who had anything to do with Asimov were sent back home, and they slapped realistic faces and hands on the service staff. There was a joke that ‘The guy who just served me my burger at Steak ’n Shake looked just like Abe Lincoln!’”

  We all laughed.

  “But what about that uncanny valley you mentioned?” I asked.

  “As robots began to look more life-like, they provoked revulsion in people,” Coltingham said. “It wasn’t the way they looked, it was the way they acted. Their motions just weren’t the same. The valley happened when a robot looked like a person, almost enough to fool you, but your subconscious cried ‘warning.’ It made a lot of people uneasy, and in some cases people who worked around androids had nervous breakdowns. That sinking feeling is why it was called a valley.”

  “I suppose then if you crossed the valley, you would relax again because both your eyes and subconscious would be fooled,” I said.

  “Spot on, young man,” he said. “I’d wager that robot serving you in the Hideaway is one of the better examples.”

  “So the uncanny problem on the Moon was so disquieting they shifted all the robots to Mars, then?”

  “The Moon Boom made so much money that real people wanted the jobs again, and with the start of construction, all ‘hands’—if you can call them that—were needed here. Abe Lincoln became a navvy, as it were.”

  I raised my eyebrow in confusion and our eyes met.

  “Sorry, that’s a British expression—short for navigational engineer, someone who digs a canal.”

  “A ditch digger. Well, honest Abe was a rail splitter, you know,” I said. “So I wonder what ever happened to Professor Asimov?”

  “The last I heard, he was teaching chemistry to fresh-faced freshmen at Boston University,” Coltingham said. “I heard he tried to go back to writing fiction again, but with such a controversial background, no one would touch his stuff.”

  Coltingham looked around. “Well, we have ranged far afield here, haven’t we?”

  “I’ve enjoyed the chat. You’re a big help to a kid like me,” I said.

  Coltingham cleared his throat. “We’re not done,” he said.

  “Of course. The attack,” I said.

  Mattern cleared his throat. “I know you could not have ever seen the man who was attacked before, because you had been on planet less than six hours,” he said. “How did he appear to you?”

  “He looked very drunk, and was very loud and abusive,” I said. “He made a crude comment about the robot’s crotch, like she was a hooker or something.”

  I realized from the way Mattern knitted his brow that “hooker” was American slang, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Did you see him touch the robot?”

  “No, not beforehand. If he had, it was before his bellowing caught our attention, we were across the room,” I said. “But I saw him as he stuck the cigarette butt in her hand. The gesture startled me so much that I jumped up. My chair fell back; it sounded like a gun shot. Everyone looked my way. It sounded like a fight in a Wild West saloon.”

  “He didn’t grab the robot’s skirt or costume?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “The robot didn’t act to defend itself?”

  “No, should it have?” I asked, rather puzzled.

  “No, but it’s a question we have to ask. The failure of Asimov’s Laws showed the potential failures of programming.”

  That proverbial light bulb went on. “You’re concerned that they might become self-aware. No, she just smiled back at him, and walked away with the cigarette butt stuck in her hand. But the proprietor saw it.”

  “Yes, he acted rather aggressively, didn’t he?” asked Mattern.

  “Yes, the owner came out very quickly, looked over her—its—hand, and then went right over to the drunk.”

  “Dale Howison.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s the man’s name, Dale Howison, the man who vandalized the android,” said Mattern. “Did the bartender ask him to leave first?”

  “No, the owner just started screaming at him about destroying property, and then swung away.”

  “Did Mr. Howison have a chance to defend himself?”

  “Not really, I don’t think he could. Like I said, he was pretty drunk. He couldn’t even stand up really.”

  “Rather than help him or call for help, the owner had his unconscious body dragged into the corridor?”

  “Jenkins had the bartender do it, yes.”

  Mattern looked up from his notepad. “Thank you, Mister Shuster, you’ve helped. I’ve interviewed a number of witnesses.”

  Coltingham looked thoughtful. “In your opinion, do you think the proprietor overreacted?”

  “Yes, that emotional reaction might have been understandable if it was a young lady,” I said, “but it was a minor injury to an android, which is still just a machine.”

  Coltingham looked at Mattern, and his expression became very serious. “Thanks for being so cooperative,” he said grimly.

  “I have no reason not to be,” I said.

  “Ah, but I know you’re very busy,” said Coltingham.

  “A long-termer like you saves me a lot of reading,” I said, casting a glance at the binder.

  “Sometime, then, in the future, we can share a drink—when I’m off duty,” Coltingham said.

  “I’d like that, very much. I bet you have a lot of good stories.”

  He smiled rather enigmatically. “You have no idea.”

  * * *

  After we shook hands and they left, I leaned around my door frame and spoke to Sherry. “It’s been an interesting first twenty-four-hours planet side.”

  She smiled a little. “Baptism by fire, it seems.”

  “So how’d your administrative planning meeting go yesterday? How is Governor Wilder’s funeral being handled?”

  “There will be a momorial service, and then the ashes will be shipped Earthside to be interred. We all signed that agreement when we joined the space program.”

  “I actually did read the fine print when I signed up,” I said. “So there’s nobody buried on Mars?”

  “No. Burials are allowed on the Moon because there are no indigenous bacteria there. However, there seems to be indications that, at least in the past, there were bacteria here on Mars.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “So who cares?”

  She turned in her seat and looked up at me. “What if a grave disturbs the soil, stirs up a microbe, which then crossbreeds with bacteria on a corpse and begins to spread? We’ve only been here a few years, there’s still a lot to be understood.”

  “I understand.”

  She looked at me, and knitted her brow. “You know, we’ve never had any kind of official die here. That’s a good question.”

  “Maybe we should plan one, before the send-off. It might help us reassure the people that the office is still running smoothly.”

  “We should have been planning a welcoming reception for you,” she said, “but with Davis-Seale gone, and no lieutenant governor …”

  “Yes, and the governor, preoccupied … I unde
rstand. Instead, let’s plan a memorial service for the late governor. That will fulfill the same function, as far as letting me meet people.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” she said.

  Being new on a job can be quite tricky, especially when you outrank people already in place with more seniority. I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with Sherry, who’d been there so long, by acting bossy. I was pleased I came up with an idea she also liked, and that put me in a good, expansive mood.

  “I have another question about “The Three Amigos” from last night,” I said. “Who is the most down-to-earth and reliable? I really didn’t get to know them very well before things went south.”

  “Jon is slick. He thinks he’s a good guy, but he looks out too much for himself, and the mining company. Pete is harmless but will bore you to tears once he starts talking. Mickey is a reporter. If you want someone knowledgeable to show you around, I’d call him.”

  I laid my hand on my heart. “Thanks, I need to get out a little bit, get my feet wet.”

  “If you’re looking for a date, though, he’s no fun for that. He’s married and his wife actually joined him here.”

  I cringed. “Oh, Lord, no, I’m not that way, and at the last event I attended in New York, I saw an old flame. I’m still raw from that encounter.”

  “Licking your wounds, eh?”

  “Old wounds, reopened,” I said.

  Chapter Six

  The mention of dating, which made me think of Desiree, brought back a gusher of painful emotions, and I realized I did not want to be alone, at least that night. I thumbed through the Bell pages and dialed up the United Press International office.

  “Mickey, this is Dave Shuster. You willing to fraternize with a government flunky?”

  He chuckled. “After the fine time we showed you last night?”

  “I think you’re a good person to show me around a bit, get oriented. I’ll buy you a steak.”

  “Beef? On Mars?” he asked incredulously.

  “Sorry, what are you game for?”

  “Some thick Chicago pan-style deep dish pizza sounds fine to me,” he replied. “I know a great place.”