Another Girl, Another Planet Read online

  “We’re done anyway,” I said as I gestured to the Albanian for the check.

  She was still shaking her head as I walked her to her apartment.

  “That looks horrible. Let me get that stain out of your shirt before you go home,” she said at the door.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said.

  “You look ridiculous,” she said, as she grabbed my wrist with one hand and turned the key with the other.

  Once inside, she gave me a withering look and ordered me to peel off my shirt.

  “Mio dio,” she muttered. “It’s all the way to your undershirt. Take that off, too.”

  “There’s no need …”

  “That stain will set,” she snapped.

  I didn’t move, so she reached over, grabbed the T-shirt, and yanked it up. She had it half up my chest, when she stopped. “You’re as hairy as an Italian bear,” she said.

  “Yeah, I’m a little self-conscious about that.”

  She began to run her fingers through my chest hair. “Some girls think that’s sexy.” She kept doing that, and then leaned up against me.

  Her lips parted slightly and I stared into her smoky hazel eyes.

  “Now there, miss,” I said, trying to sound sophisticated. “Are you trying to come onto me?”

  She gave a little crooked smile. “What do you think?”

  Maybe ten minutes later, as they say at a rocket launch, we had liftoff.

  * * *

  I left early the next morning, after giving Laura a peck on the cheek and letting her snooze, because I needed to get home, shower and shave, and change clothes. I sprayed the marinara stains with Shout! when I got home and tossed the shirts in the hamper—we never did get to removing the stains at Laura’s.

  When I came into the office, Sherry actually did a double take when I walked in. “Hey, you’re looking … bouncy? Have a fun night or something?”

  “Or something.”

  “Somebody told me they saw you at Nicky’s last night with Laura Antonaz,” she said.

  “She was right. They have good Italian food.”

  She gave me look, as if to say, “Is that all you had?”

  “We had a nice dinner,” I said, “Even though the place looks like a greasy spoon.”

  She pulled out a card from the Rolodex and handed it to me. “You need to call the arbitration bureau. You have to attend a labor hearing this morning.”

  “Why am I getting this at the last minute?”

  She held one hand with the other. “I’m sorry, it’s an emergency. There’s nothing to be done. There was an American protest at a construction site. Work stops until there’s a ruling.”

  “It’s not like I don’t have anything else to do,” I said. “But I suppose if it’s an emergency …”

  She splayed her hands and looked heavenward. “These last-minute dispute resolutions are a hassle. They were done by Davis-Seale, and Wilder would rubber stamp his recommendation. Now it’s all you.”

  “What time do I need to be there?”

  “10 AM. You need to call them and let them know you’re on the way.”

  I looked down my nose at my watch. “Crap, I wish I wasn’t late this morning, that’s in a half hour.”

  “That’s the price you pay for catting around,” said Sherry, with a grin I could hear in her voice.

  “I think I’m entitled to have a little relaxation while I’m here,” I called to her. “Besides, that’s the first real date I’ve had since I got here.”

  She leaned around the edge of the door. “You need to get going. I hope you read up on labor arbitration when you got your job manual back Earthside.”

  I straightened my tie and grabbed my briefcase as I headed out.

  Now, as a matter of fact I had read my job packet. My job description included presiding over the mediation of certain labor disputes. This would be my first one.

  As administrative counsel, it was Thompson’s job to accompany me, and he filled me in as we went over. The dispute was over a complaint made by some HVAC workers. A retail renovation was using robots for the ventilation system installation. The union asserted it was skilled work reserved for humans, while the contractor asserted it was an assembly job that could be done by robots.

  Our goal would be to have the two sides come to a mutually acceptable agreement, but if that didn’t happen, the colonial governor could impose a decision, or order arbitration to be restarted. The colonial executive administrator—that was me now—was responsible for presiding over the arbitration hearing, and if that flopped, the governor would make a ruling.

  Since I temporarily held both positions, at least on an interim basis, I held all the cards and could decide things on the spot, if I wanted. Thompson knew that, and so he was especially close-mouthed as we traveled to the hearing. I knew he wanted to gauge how decisive or impulsive I was.

  He asked me a few questions, and realized I had read up on the subject.

  He sat back as we rolled along. “It’s like swimming now,” he said. “Just have to jump in and start paddling. Each case is different.”

  Since we were not otherwise chummy, it was a fairly quiet ride, and I recalled that, when I was at university, a colleague on the college student council once told me, “There’s a fine line between decisive, impatient, impulsive, and trigger-happy. You, Dave, cross all of them.” Thompson would find that out for himself that day.

  The arbitration bureau was in a small, nondescript, unpainted building up against a supply warehouse on a lower level of Dome One. You almost had to wonder if it was left so plain so as not to offend the proletarian sensibilities of the Soviets. The receptionist/clerk was obviously from the Eastern Bloc. Her dress was plain and poorly made, and her glasses thick and unfashionable.

  She stood up when Thompson and I entered. “I will tell Mrs. Rumyantzev you are both here.”

  In a moment she came back out. “In this room, sirs,” she said with a sweep of her hands.

  The hearing room was small, windowless, and somewhat claustrophobic. The sense of confinement was aggravated by the size of the union members there, big, burly men in the kind of bulky clothing characteristic of manual laborers on Mars. They tend to have lots of pockets and carry lots of tools, because retrieving a forgotten tool is that much more difficult when your job is determined by how fast you can walk and how fast the transport runs. It’s not like you can hop in your pick-up or van and run back to the shop.

  The three complainants sat on one side of the table, joined by a metal workers’ union representative and a shop steward. The contractor and his attorney, as well as some managers, sat on the other side. The contractor was a small wiry man with an obviously big attitude. His body language was very hostile, and his face showed obvious irritation at even being there. He scowled at everyone in turn. His lawyer sat next to him, as calm and seemingly relaxed as the contractor seemed agitated.

  The professional mediator, Comrade Rumyantsev, would sit next to me at the head of the table on one side. Thompson sat on the other side of me. The “exhibits”—two androids who been doing the duct installation the union workers complained about—stood along one wall.

  Rumyantsev came in last, a small woman who reminded me of an Eastern European version of Sherry—a bright gaze, dark hair, and an all-business attitude. Her formal clothes, old-fashioned glasses, and Khrushchev-era hair style pegged her as a WarPac bureaucrat retread.

  She extended a tiny hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister Shuster. I am Irina Rumyantsev, your delegate from the arbitration service.” A smile quickly appeared and disappeared from her face.

  “My pleasure. This is the first time I’ve participated in one of these arbitrations, so I will pretty much try to sit back and let you run the show. I intend to watch and observe as attentively as possible.”

  I sat down at the head of the table and leaned forward.

  “I do want to note, before we kick off, that I intend to be fair and even-handed if calle
d about to make a judgment,” I said. “Our defendant here is an American, so I naturally want to protect his interests. But as the product of a working-class family, I always understand the plight of the working man.”

  There were soft sounds of disbelief from the workers’ side of the table.

  One man spoke up, with an obvious Eastern European accent. “You are still a political appointment by the United States Republican Party,” he said.

  “You assume all Republicans are rich. That’s a stereotype; just like thinking all Communist Party functionaries are poor.”

  One of the workers raised his eyebrows in recognition of a point well made. Rumyantsev suppressed a scowl.

  “That’s not my case. My father belongs to the Teamsters Union,” I said. “He immigrated to the U.S. after World War II. I’m my own man, and I chose the Republican Party. They didn’t choose me.”

  Admittedly, the large number of Italians in the northeastern U.S. who supported the Republican Party was more a factor of a historical accident—the Irish took over the Democratic clubhouses first and blocked the Italians out—but they didn’t need to know that.

  I smiled. “So if I have any inherent personal biases, they balance out. I’m hopelessly ambivalent when it comes to sympathies—genuinely neutral.”

  I nodded to Rumyantsev. “And now I turn over the floor to you, Madame Arbitrator.”

  The point of contention was clear. The contractor asserted the duct work was unskilled construction labor which could be done by androids, while the union’s position was that it was a renovation that required skilled human labor. Of course, the contractor was trying to save money. The robots were rented and could work around the clock, so long as their power supplies held up. It would cost him one-fifth of what it would cost to use humans.

  “You acknowledge that if this was an airless space, there would be no question here,” said the union rep. He looked like Vince Lombardi’s twin brother; heavy features, thick glasses, a flat top haircut, and had a straightforward way of speaking. He wore a short-sleeve shirt with pencils in his pocket.

  He sounded like he knew his stuff. “The robotic humanoid exception for Mars specifically invokes the need for construction labor in airless environments.”

  “I turned the air supply off, if that’s what you mean, when I was not there,” the contractor said. “But there is no way to separate the space. I am always in and out.”

  “That’s because this is an interior space, not outside construction,” said the rep. “It is climate-controlled, like everywhere inside the dome.”

  “It’s more than basic construction,” said the shop steward with a little heat. “There’s skilled renovation being done.”

  The union rep put his hand on the steward’s to calm him down.

  “To be fair to the defendant, I’ve seen pictures of the work,” said Rumyantsev. “It looks like basic construction.”

  “Did you demolish any interior walls?” asked the union rep.

  “No,” said the contractor.

  The shop steward gestured to Rumyantsev. “But he punched numerous holes in them to accommodate the extensive duct work. That kind of installation is skilled labor.”

  “Let’s not discuss the physical process of preparing for the installation of the duct work,” said Rumyantsev. “The question is skilled versus unskilled labor. Let’s discuss the level of skill required for the work.”

  I hoped people wouldn’t see my eyes glazing over. I had already begun to softly drum my fingers on the tabletop.

  “HVAC work has always been considered a primary construction task,” said the attorney for the contractor.

  “This is not primary construction work, except in the most literal sense,” said the union rep. “The ducts have to be measured, cut, fitted, sealed, and joined in a very precise way.”

  I could tell my attention was beginning to verge into boredom and I was getting ready to fall asleep, so I decided I needed to jump in to stay awake.

  “Excuse me for not being familiar with the subject, but, I’m surprised that these androids have the skill and sophistication to do such precise work,” I said.

  Rumyantsev looked at me a bit irritably. “You have been here only a few days. You are not familiar with the level of development that has been achieved with the latest android models,” she said somewhat quickly.

  “Still, I feel there is something that could decide the subject very simply, at least for me,” I said. “There’s no need to drag this out, since right now I am both charged with presiding over this arbitration as well as possibly deciding it.”

  “Is there any part of the ductwork that is not galvanized steel sheet metal?” I continued. “Isn’t duct tape a vital material for sealing seams and exposures?”

  One worker who’d been quiet up until then spoke up. “We use duct tape all the time, for minor adjustments and closures.” He sounded American.

  The other workers chuckled at him, and the union people shook their heads.

  “Madame Arbitrator, I’m allowed to present evidence if it helps in coming to a decision, aren’t I?” I asked.

  “Yes, you are. What are you interested in presenting?”

  “Would you request the attorney for the defendant to allow me to interact with the androids?”

  The attorney frowned. “This is highly unusual.”

  “You should stay neutral,” Thompson said quietly.

  “Business as usual is going to keep us here all day,” I said. “I have an idea to prove a point.”

  Thompson shrugged and looked down the table. “Go ahead, let’s see what you got.”

  “Very well,” said the attorney for the contractor. “I’ll allow it.” He nodded to the contractor, who stood up and went over to the robots.

  “Attention,” he said. “Stand up.”

  They did so. He pointed at me.

  “Follow the directions of this man,” he commanded.

  “Come here,” I said. They did.

  They were androids, but you could tell they had been rehabbed to fit in better with the civilian population inside the dome, as opposed to working outside in the Martian atmosphere or solely in a factory. Beneath their surface fittings you could still see the old-fashioned stylized design that went back to the days of the first robots in the ’50s and Professor Asimov’s regime. You would never mistake them for human, even though they wore the same clothes as the humans did because of the need for pockets and tool belts.

  I turned toward the table. “Anyone have a roll of duct tape?”

  As I suspected, the fellow who brought the subject up did. He smiled and reached deep into a large pocket of his coveralls. “Here you go, sir.”

  “Thank you,” I said. He smiled and sat back down.

  I turned to one robot. “Take this.”

  It did.

  I turned to the second one. “Stick your arms out in front of you and put your hands together at the wrists, like you are to be handcuffed.”

  It did.

  I turned back to the first. “Use the tape to fasten the wrists together.”

  The attorney stood up. “I object. I don’t see the purpose …”

  “Sit down,” said Rumyantsev. “He can conduct demonstrations as part of introducing evidence if he wants.”

  The first robot fumbled badly with the tape, it being both thick and sticky, but after a while tore off a patch and rather daintily plopped it across both of the other robot’s wrists.

  The attorney scowled, and the contractor didn’t look very happy, either.

  “Part your wrists,” I said to the other robot.

  It did.

  “You see, a human semantically would recognize what I actually intended,” I said. I spoke to the first robot. “Now, wrap the wrists so they are immobilized, and cannot be separated,” I said.

  It again struggled to start the sticky tape, and then began to very laboriously make circles with the roll of tape around the other robot’s hand. It did this for a
couple of minutes, making a large donut of silvery tape.

  “That’s enough,” I said, and it stopped.

  I nodded to the worker who owned the tape. “Now you come here.” He did.

  I told the first robot to give the worker the tape. He took it.

  “Okay, now you tape my wrists together.” It took him 30 seconds.

  I held up my bound hands and tried to separate them. I couldn’t.

  “I don’t see the purpose …” the attorney began to sputter again.

  “The purpose is quite clear,” said Rumyantsev. “The evidence clearly shows the robots are incapable of efficiently understanding instruction in the vernacular and doing one of the simple tasks required in making adjustments during the installation of the ductwork.”

  “That’s my problem,” snapped the contractor.

  I’d had it with the little cheat. His attitude had goaded me. I snapped.

  “No, substandard construction is my problem. I doubt these gizmos can do a proper job that would pass inspection,” I said as I pointed to the androids.

  The contractor gave me a smug look which I instantly understood.

  “Unless you bribed someone,” I added.

  “Why, you mother—”

  The attorney grabbed the contractor’s forearm to shut him up.

  I turned and looked at Rumyantsev. “Perhaps the mediator is ready for a ruling?”

  She nodded.

  “On the basis of the evidence presented, I accept the plaintiff’s complaint,” said Rumyantsev.

  “I object,” said the contractor’s attorney.

  “As interim colonial governor, I reject your appeal,” I said. “How’s that for expeditious?”

  The contractor’s attorney looked stunned. I looked back at Thompson, who looked equally confused.

  I looked across the table with a “drop dead” expression. The contractor and his attorney both got up. The attorney avoided eye contact, but the contractor looked at me hatefully.

  The contractor looked at the androids and gave a derisive snort.

  “You stupid clankers, come with us!”

  I had never heard that slur against an android before.

  I heard one speak for the first time. “I have not completed my task.”