Another Girl, Another Planet Page 18

  “The most important thing is to avoid any tears, rips, or pulling out any feeder tubes,” he said. “We’re on the equator, so it’s almost normal Earth temp. Right now it’s three degrees Celsius.”

  “Wow, it’s practically cocoa butter weather.”

  He gave me a funny look. “Once outside don’t drag your feet, the Martian dust is powder fine and can get in everything. The cabin of the transport is pressurized, but don’t open your helmet.”

  “One last thing,” he said as he showed me the controls for the radio. “Bear in mind all communications are monitored, so don’t say something you don’t want anyone else to hear. It’s like radio transmissions among airplanes.”

  Once I had the helmet secure, he tapped his mic. “Hear that?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “Great. The transport is pulling up.”

  He pushed a large button and the inside door of the airlock slid over. I stepped inside. I looked at him as he waggled a thumbs up gesture. I gave him a straight thumbs up to show I was ready. The inner door closed and then the outer door slid aside. I could see the distortion as the much heavier air rushed outside. I walked toward the entrance.

  Everything was bathed in that reddish light from that ubiquitous peach colored Martian sky. You’d think Mars’ sky would be blue like Earth’s—and I was told it would be, except some of that powdery Martian dust stayed perpetually suspended in the atmosphere.

  Officer Jenny had pulled a ground tractor towing a trailer up to the airlock. A tarp covered the scrap on the trailer. The tractor had a large square cab, where two people—I assumed Coltingham and Mattern—already sat. Jenny, of course, didn’t wear a pressure suit; she wore a simple blue jacket over her uniform, but otherwise nothing special.

  Once outside, I saw that scaffolding rose high up along the side of the dome, where the broken window for the Hilton lobby was being replaced. I looked in the opposite direction. On the sand, track marks had been left by the vehicles that searched for and found the bodies of the victims.

  Once in the tractor cab, Coltingham and Mattern sat on one side, and I sat opposite them.

  I pointed out the window in the direction of the Hilton. “Two of the victims of the accident were androids,” I said. “Do we know where they are now?”

  “Back at Tesla, most likely, being repaired,” Coltingham said.

  “Did you inspect them, as evidence, before releasing them?” I asked.

  “Yes I did, and they were both run-of-the-mill escorts,” he said. “Nothing out of place at all.”

  “I appreciate your diligence,” I said, looking straight ahead again. It wasn’t often I had an opportunity to see the colony from the outside, but it was the simplest way to return the scrap to Tesla. Taking it through the inside, along corridors and transports, would have been considerably more complicated. Besides, it had been stored in a shed outside the Dome. There were a number of storage buildings sitting in the desert adjacent to the various domes that were used for storing materials that didn’t need climate control; it saved space.

  The tractor had wheels made of an open spun aluminum framework with titanium chevrons for traction, and massive dust guards that looked like the fenders that went on World War II era transport trucks. The cab itself looked like it belonged on a Bucyrus Erie excavator, with Jenny sitting in the operator’s seat. As we moved along, workers in the bulkier heavy-duty pressure suits were doing some maintenance along inter-dome train tracks. As we passed, I noticed an open bin with what looked like scrap in it. It was the small pieces of junk thrown by that sandstorm that had lodged in the tracks.

  There was a robot minding the bin. It was one of the old kind that didn’t look human, not an android.

  As we rounded Dome One and I looked at its surface, I noticed the recent storm left a visible scouring on the side it struck. When we came around, I looked out over the open plain, in the gap between Domes Two and Three. What looked like a light, grayish fog floated in the air, pumping waste gases outside the domes, including illicit cigarette smoke, seemed to be contributing to the thin atmosphere, and if its density around the colony was increasing in the depths of the chasm, I wondered if it might start contributing to the severity of the dust storms.

  As we approached the outskirts of Dome Six, I saw a man in a heavy-duty pressure suit directing two robots who were disassembling the exterior molding of an airlock.

  I tapped the divider behind Jenny. “It doesn’t look like we can go inside there.”

  “No, sir, we have to go around to the next lock,” she said. “This one was damaged in the storm. They’re making repairs.”

  In a few minutes we came to the other airlock and exited as Jenny unhitched the trailer.

  As we approached the internal security entrance, an electric eye scanned the identification badges on the exterior of our suits. Jenny had a built-in recognition transponder. Then we hung our suits in the provided.

  We took a transport to the Tesla office, which was on the highest level of the dome. While the factory was buried in the sand outside, there was a reception office inside the dome itself.

  When we walked in, I noticed the office looked very spare and unused. It was almost like an exhibit. It made me think the “real” Tesla was very well hidden away and the office was just there for formalities. There was a nice faux mahogany desk with a pretty, young, dark-haired lady behind it. Her nameplate said “Cindy Tesla.”

  We introduced ourselves. The android looked very realistic, and, more importantly, acted very normal. “Gentleman, Mister Kurland is expecting you,” she said with a smile. “I will take you to his office.” She gestured toward a door. There was a long corridor with a small private transport track along one side. Inside were private transport cars.

  “Mister Kurland’s office is not here?”

  “No, it is at the factory,” she said.

  “How far away is the factory?” I asked.

  “Only half a kilometer,” she said, still smiling sweetly, and held open the door to the transport.

  “You’re a service android, aren’t you?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “I am here to serve.”

  Coltingham and I sat down in the front, while Cindy sat in the back. I rolled my eyes, and Coltingham noticed.

  “Now, what is it?”

  “Those boobs were made for business,” I said. “She looks like she was designed as a sex worker.”

  “You Yanks have a fascination with tits,” he growled.

  “With Tesla making androids like that, women’s lib will never get off the ground here,” I said as the transport pulled out.

  “You don’t seem to mind old—I mean old-fashioned—women,” Coltingham said with a smirk.

  Guess I had that coming.

  The private transport went down and under the dome. As we pulled up to the underground factory, there was a security checkpoint with guards on either side.

  Cindy got out as soon as the transport car stopped and walked up to them. She flashed some kind of badge at them. “Mister Kurland is expecting us.”

  The automatic doors opened with that evil, rubbery chirruping sound. “Have a nice visit,” Cindy said. “I must return to the office.”

  One of the guards pointed down the corridor. “Take a right at that desk,” he said.

  The guard at the desk directed us down a hallway behind him, where another guard sat. The second guard had us wait a moment as an inner door opened. A middle-aged woman came out.

  “Gentlemen,” she said. “I’m Dolores McCarver, Mister Kurland’s personal assistant.”

  She shook Coltingham’s hand. “It’s always nice to see you, Andy.”

  She shook mine. “Mister Shuster, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  She quickly shook Mattern’s hand. “Deputy, my pleasure.” She nodded at Jenny.

  The door at the far side of the inner office was open, and she led us in.

  Kurland didn’t rise, but sat in his
chair behind his desk. “Have a seat, gentlemen,” he said with a thin smile.

  I realized why he didn’t get up to shake our hands. Despite sitting up straight in his chair, it was obvious he was very short. His head didn’t reach to the top of the seat back, and as he turned in his chair, from the way it swiveled, it was clear his feet weren’t touching the floor.

  Now I understood why my offhand remark about cutting him down to size had drawn guffaws.

  His hair was thin, gray, and well-cut. He wore a mustache and goatee that, except for the grayness, was identical to Vladimir Lenin’s. His eyes were blue and cold, and the fingers of his doll-like hands folded into a steeple as he spoke.

  I noticed that arrogant people tend to steeple their fingers when they speak. I always assumed it was because they were unconsciously imitating the roofline of a church—and they think they’re God.

  “Constable Coltingham tells me you want to discuss some detritus that was found after the last sandstorm,” said Kurland.

  “Yes. A large container formerly used to transport robot attachment tools was picked up by the storm and hurled through a window at the Executive Hilton,” I said. “Six people died, and two androids were lost. It originated from your company. How old it is and where it was when the storm picked it up is unknown,” I said.

  “I’ve examined it,” said Coltingham. “It is an old Tesla piece of equipment. Who knows how many years it was out there?”

  “Mister Shuster, the constable here already faxed me a photograph of the item in question. There is no doubt it belongs to Tesla. From its design, it goes back to when Dome One was under construction,” said Kurland. “It is designed to hold attachments used on large construction tools of a type that would have been used by robots as they assembled the exterior of the Dome.”

  “Why would it have been left outside?” I asked.

  “It wouldn’t have been. It was almost certainly lost, or abandoned,” he said with a creeping tone of irritation. “Bear in mind, as the Dome was being constructed, the work site was almost completely dominated by robots. The only pressurized facility at that time was the temporary landing base, and that was a considerable distance away. The human engineers directing the construction were few and far between, and couldn’t be everywhere at once.”

  “If the case was lost, where were the tools stored afterwards?”

  “Ah, thought of that myself,” said Kurland. “I asked a manager who helped with the construction. These kinds of tools were used on the exterior, but also on the interior before it was sealed and pressurized,” he said. “It is quite possible the tools were in use continually for weeks, as work moved from the outside to the interior. The case was probably left behind outside, and then covered up by shifting sand. Amidst the hustle and bustle of construction, it was forgotten.”

  “Were you here at the time Dome One was being built?”

  “No, I was preoccupied in moving our operations from the Moon,” he said. “As you would imagine, it took a great deal of preparation and work.” He smiled sardonically. “Where were you at the time?”

  “Graduating from high school.”

  “Goodness, you’re just a child,” he said. “How are you liking your job here?”

  “Very interesting, never a dull moment,” I said, a bit smartly. “I had hoped our paths would have crossed, I wanted to meet you. But I suppose you’ve been busy.”

  “Very much so. This facility manufactures ninety percent of the robots, and 100 percent of the androids, used by the space program,” he said.

  “I assumed you made 100 percent of the robots.”

  “There are a small number made directly by the government for specialized uses,” he said. “They are generally not used in any public capacity.”

  “Back to the subject at hand,” I said, sucking in my breath. “It looks like this piece of junk was sitting under a sand dune buried for almost ten years, lost and forgotten, until the storm uncovered it and picked it up. That was a particularly vicious storm.”

  “Now you understand why I have the manufacturing facility deep underground,” he said. “Although the odds are small, any loss of production time would have a ripple effect throughout the colony’s economy.”

  I cleared my throat. “Technically, Tesla is subject to a fine of up to $25,000, but I don’t consider this to be illegal dumping.” I looked at Coltingham and Mattern. “We can just put this down as ‘found property’ and end the investigation at that.”

  “Fine by me,” said Coltingham. “No criminal charges, then.”

  “I think that’s appropriate,” said Kurland.

  “I appreciate that you researched the evidence, so we can write up a report and file it away properly,” I said. “Of course, I have no control over whether the families of any of the victims files a civil suit.”

  “That’s a problem we can deal with when it arises,” said Kurland.

  “Well, if subpoenas start flying, the lawyers will serve anyone they can,” I said.

  “I’ve had to deal with liability issues regarding robots for many years now. It’s a subject we have a great deal of familiarity with,” he said, nodding slowly. “You know, you could have done all this over the telephone. You could have returned the material, instead of bringing it over personally.”

  “I thought it would be a wonderful opportunity to meet you in person and see such an important facility,” I said. “Can you take me around some? Give me the proverbial nickel tour?”

  The way his eyes widened so slightly told me he was incensed at my brashness, but he knew I was within my rights. He thought for a second, and then took a deep breath. “If you don’t mind a quick and dirty walk-through, I’d be happy to take you,” he said at last. He looked at Coltingham and Mattern. “Do you want to come, too?”

  “I’ve been there before,” said Coltingham. “But I’ll come along.”

  “I have no problem seeing the inside,” said Mattern.

  “Can I come?” asked Jenny.

  Kurland almost fell out of his chair, and we all were startled ourselves. I’d never heard an android interject into a conversation, or speak up when not addressed. At the spark of panic in Kurland’s face, I saw my chance.

  “I’m sure Mister Kurland would love to have you see where you come from,” I said.

  “It would be an educational experience,” she said.

  It occurred to me again that Jenny’s self-improvement programming might have become self-directed. Kurland fidgeted, but he was boxed into a corner. “I will take you through the factory myself.” He stood up.

  He really was quite short. “Give me a moment to notify the plant manager,” he said. “You all can wait outside.”

  We sat down in the outer office, Jenny and I on one side, Mattern and Coltingham on the other, as Kurland disappeared through a back door.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” I asked Jenny. “Will this cause any dissonance for you?”

  “Have you ever visited a nursery for newborn children?” she asked.

  “No, I’m not married or a father, but I see your point.”

  “My duties require me to participate in multiple unplanned situations and make decisions spontaneously,” she said. “As broad an experience of learning as possible is beneficial.”

  “I thought you are programmed only to do what you’re told to do?”

  “That includes serving whomever I am assigned to, and in their absence, I have to be able to ascertain what actions serves them best,” she said. “For example, when you arrived at the office unannounced, I could have said Constable Coltingham was unavailable if I determined that was in his best interest. One generally needs an appointment to see him. But I knew he was not otherwise engaged, and I know your position, so I determined he would best be served by seeing what you required.”

  “So you are self-directed, then?”

  “No, sir, I make decisions as required,” said Jenny.

  “I didn’t ask you for an example
just now,” I said.

  She actually stopped and seemed to be thinking. “That example was by way of an explanation,” she said.

  “So you are educating me, then?”

  She stopped again. “Perhaps education is a service.”

  “I didn’t ask to be educated. Perhaps you are being presumptive.”

  She looked me in the eyes. “You are very intelligent. I find conversing with you very helpful.”

  “I’m just a fast thinker. Perhaps someday you and your fellow robots will be able to think as fast as humans.”

  Kurland walked back in the office with a man wearing a blue work shirt. “This is Guillermo Ledbetter, my plant manager,” he said.

  “You can call me Bill,” Ledbetter said as he shook our hands.

  “He will take us inside and along the assembly line,” said Kurland, holding the door open.

  “Thank you very much for this,” I said.

  “I probably should have invited you myself,” said Kurland, “but I’ve become a bit of a hermit, perhaps, being so focused on our work here.” He looked at Jenny. “As you can see, we’ve made strides in developing artificial intelligence and improving verisimilitude. Officer Jenny is a prime example.”

  “Perhaps someday people will decide androids can be used on Earth again,” said Ledbetter. “We’re doing such a good job; they can blend right in.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Kurland as we walked inside.

  There was a safety station immediately inside the door with hard hats, earplugs, and goggles. “No need for earplugs, this won’t take that long,” said Ledbetter. “Everyone except Mister Mattern already has glasses, so there’s no need for that …” he said as he handed Mattern goggles “…and no one has open-toed shoes, which is good. Everyone grab a hard hat.”

  He handed one to Jenny. “You, too, we don’t want the possibility of cracking that expensive positronic brain.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  We walked through a set of double doors into what looked like a standard assembly line area, with robotic torsos moving slowly between men and machines.

  The floor was solid poured concrete and our shoes all clacked as we walked along the assembly line.