Reality Matrix Effect (9781310151330) (5 page)

He pushed another button on the console.

“Service,” said the smiling female facsimile
on the screen. “What can I do for you?”

“You can send me my goddamn whiskey,” Wraggon
said. “Can’t you stupid machines do anything right?”

“Have you checked the—”

“Yeah, yeah. I checked everything. It was all
okay. You damn rustbrains just aren’t listening to me. I’m human.
You’re supposed to do what I tell you. You can only do what you’re
programmed to do. You can only think what you’re programmed to
think. You may be able to do some things better than we can, but
only because
we
made you that way!  Now, if you were
human, you’d know better than to give me any backtalk! 
I’d....”

“Sir,” the computer-generated image on the
screen said calmly, ignoring Wraggon’s diatribe, “our service trace
shows electrical damage emanating from one of your communicator
extensions. That will have to be repaired before transmission
service can be restored. The fail-safe mechanism will not permit
any transmissions unless the lines have passed a full safety check.
This, of course, is for your protection, and....”

“Uh-huh,” Wraggon muttered, suddenly tired of
fighting. “When can you get it fixed?”

“We can have a repair robot there within the
hour. Will someone be home?”   

“The manager’ll let ’im in.”

“That will be fine, sir. We’ll charge that to
your account.”

“What?” screamed Wraggon. “Your damn system
breaks down, and you’re gonna charge
me
?  Service is
supposed to be included in the monthly charge!”

“That is correct, sir. Normal service is
included, but our service trace shows that the damage was caused by
impact with an external object traveling with a force, speed and
trajectory indicating that it was thrown at the extension. We
clearly specify in our service contract that we bear no
responsibility for such damage. If our interpretation is in error,
you may, of course, appeal the bill to our complaint
department.”

Wraggon made a rude gesture and broke
contact. He needed that drink more than ever now. Good thing there
were still some human-type bars around.

The bar was about six blocks from Wraggon’s
apartment. Normally, he would have used Trans-Mat, but he wanted
nothing more to do with machines right now. Besides, the walk might
help him cool off. He had to get hold of himself. This was the
fifth time in the past month that he had skipped work and instead
curled up with a bottle. He’d never had a drinking problem before.
Was he suddenly turning into an alcoholic?  All he knew was
that his job was becoming intolerable.

It used to seem reasonable—even sort of
noble—that robots should be doing all the menial jobs. That left
people with time and energy to improve themselves and to develop
their talents to the fullest without having to worry quite so much
about the drudgery associated with keeping food on the table. After
all, for every menial job a robot took away from a human being, new
and more challenging jobs opened up. And with the country’s
train-and-place centers to coordinate personnel and training needs,
workers now had unprecedented mobility. Mid-life career changes
were not only possible but typical.

Available jobs covered a wide range of skill
levels, too. Wraggon was living proof. He’d started out knowing
nothing more about robots than how to activate one. A low-skill,
entry-level job, bolstered by skill-enhancement training, groomed
him for his current position as plant manager for one of King
Robotics’ three Los Angeles factories. The pay was good. The
benefits were good. And, until about a month ago, he considered his
life pretty good.

Recently, though, he’d started to see the job
as a waste of his talents. He was smart, he decided. Smart enough
to be in charge of
people
, not just a bunch of robots
designed to make other robots. Years ago, assembly lines were
staffed by human beings instead of robbies. Then, it meant
something to be a plant manager. Then, people looked up to you. His
grandfather used to talk about the old days. About how the coons
and spics and white trash that worked for him used to jump whenever
he snapped his fingers. Back then, people knew their place. They’d
treat a guy like Wraggon with respect—or else!  And now here
he was running a factory so that some company owned by his
inferiors could make lots of money. Thanks to him, those bums could
act as if they were better than he was!

Wraggon stuffed his hands in his pockets and
focused on the ground as he walked. The mid-morning sun gently
warmed him, and his subconscious noted the fragrance of a roadside
cluster of flowers, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

Finally, he looked up. Carefully planned
residential developments dominated the area, each bearing its own
distinctive architectural identity. Yet somehow, despite their
individuality, each development was compatible with those around
it. Grass, trees, shrubs and brightly colored floral varieties
surrounded the buildings.

Nice neighborhood, Wraggon thought. But,
then, they’re
all
nice neighborhoods.

The residential area gave way to an equally
attractive business section. Computer and communicator links made
it possible to conduct most types of business directly from home,
but many people still liked working together in an office
environment. The same desire for human contact kept a host of small
retail shops in the black, despite the fact that people could order
virtually anything they needed by communicator and have it
delivered almost instantaneously by Trans-Mat.

The Milk of Human Kindness was a pleasant
little tavern at the edge of the business district. For some
reason, Wraggon thought, the place seemed a little less appealing
lately. Maybe it was the clientele that bothered him. Too many
undesirables. If this keeps up, he thought, I’ll have to find
another saloon.

“Spacefarer’s,” Wraggon said to the bartender
as he hoisted himself onto a stool. “Make that a double.”

“Ya got good taste in booze, buddy.”

The slightly intoxicated voice belonged to a
large man sitting two stools away. “Spacefarer’s is the best.
’Specially when ya wanna drown out a love affair. But ya know, ya
haven’t really had it till yuv had it out in space. In free-fall.
It does really funny things to ya in free-fall. Ya ever have it in
space?”

Wraggon looked around uncomfortably and
noticed that they were the only customers. “Huh?” he
said—immediately regretting that he’d acknowledged the other man at
all.

“He wants to know if you ever had a broad in
space,” the bartender offered.

“Naaaaah. You dope. I asked him if he ever
had any
Spacefarer’s
out in space!  Sheesh!”  The
man shook his head and rolled his eyes in exasperation. Wraggon
studied his drink.

“Name’s Barnard. Like the star. Ya
know?  Barnard.”

“Yeah,” Wraggon said noncommittally,
“Barnard.”  Why couldn’t this clown leave him alone?

“Well?” Barnard said expectantly, moving to
the stool next to Wraggon’s.

“Well what?”

“Who’re you?”

 ”
None of your damn business!”
Wraggon blurted. He flinched instinctively as he realized that
Barnard had seven inches and about 60 pounds on him. If Barnard was
a mean drunk, Wraggon was in big trouble.

“Hey, you’re okay, buddy!”  Barnard
laughed heartily, clapping Wraggon on the back so hard that the
smaller man’s nose almost wound up in his drink. “A bottle of
Spacefarer’s fer me an’ my buddy,” Barnard called out in
increasingly slurred syllables.

“Uh, listen, uh, Barnard,” Wraggon began
carefully. “I appreciate the bottle, but I’d just as soon be left
alone. I’m in a lousy mood.”

“Well, sure ya are, pal!  That’s why
people come ta places like this. But ya don’t really wanna be
alone, now, do ya?  If ya wanted ta be alone, ya coulda just
ordered up the booze at home.”

“I tried,” Wraggon said mournfully. “My damn
communicator’s busted, and they wouldn’t transmit anything.”

“Oh. I unnerstan’,” Barnard said, pouring
himself a refill from the newly opened bottle the bartender had
just placed on the bar. “I got some troubles myself. I go off an’
join the Merchant Fleet so’s this girl will gimme a little respect,
an’ as soon as I get back from my first full-length run, I find out
she’s quit the service and gone off with some fuckin’ artist.”

“She was in the service, too?” Wraggon asked
without thinking.

“Yeah. We met at this party, see, an’ she
starts tellin’ me all about how great it is in the Fleet an’ how
she figures any man worth havin’ would hafta have his head in the
stars. So like a wom
[1]
, I join up. Had ta work like a damn robbie,
too. We make a few training runs together. Have some great zero-gee
sex. Everything’s in phase, see. Then I find out she can’t even
wait an’ tell me goodbye ta my face!  I mean, it’s not like
before the Borisov drive, when it took a year ta get ta the
colonies. Only takes two months now. But she just couldn’t wait ta
dump me.

“So now I gotta finish out my hitch runnin’
aroun’ from colony ta colony in th’ Asteroid Belt. Ya got any idea
what that’s like?  All ya see is these
bowl-squatters
[2]
who think they’re regular Dan’l Boones or
somethin’. What a joke! 

They’re livin’ in these big, comfy domes with
lots o’ robots ta wait on ’em hand an’ foot, while we spend months
out in space cramped inta tiny little cabins.
They
don’t
hafta worry ’bout the robbies’ mass/function index. They don’t
hafta worry ’bout makin’ every cubic centimeter of  room
count!  We’re the ones hafta be miserable just so’s there’ll
be enough cargo space and mass allowance on the ship for the stuff
they make up there and for the supplies they need from Earth. But
they think they’re real hotshots—Apollo’s gift ta the
universe!  I hate ’em all!”

Wraggon sipped his drink. He wasn’t very
interested in the details of Barnard’s story, but there was
something about the way the big man talked that made Wraggon feel
comfortable.

“It’s the robbies I hate,” Wraggon said with
an openness he usually reserved for several drinks later.

“My grandfather, he used to say the country
started going to hell when they forced the schools in Little Rock
to let the niggers in. Gramp knew what he was talking about, too. I
mean, he was right there in the thick of it—in his first year at
Central High back then. That’s where it all started, you know. He
told me all about how the troops came in and everything.

“But seems to me things got even worse when
the robots started taking over all the simple jobs.”

“Yeah?” Barnard responded with genuine
interest. “Why’s that?”

Wraggon’s spirits rose as he realized he was
talking to a potential ally.

“Well, look, they had to do something about
the workers who used to do the jobs the robots were taking? 
Right?”

Barnard nodded.

“So they sent ’em back to school!” 
Wraggon waited for a reaction, but Barnard just looked at him
blankly. “Well,” Wraggon resumed, “that’s what it all amounted to.
A bunch of Jew eggheads and some smart-ass politicians decided they
needed to ‘retrain’ the workers. Otherwise, they figured they’d
just have a bunch of bums hanging around waiting for a government
handout. If you ask me, they should’ve just shipped ’em all out to
the colonies!”

“I think maybe some of ’em did go ta the
colonies,”  Barnard said. “I remember a couple o’ rock farmers
on Ceres talkin’ about how their fathers come over on the first
settlement ship. They were kinda laughing about how it turned out
the robbies did ′em all a favor by taking over their fathers’
jobs.”

“Yeah, I guess some of ’em went to the
colonies, all right, but lots of ’em stayed put. And that meant
headaches for the wheels who were running the show. See, they’d
tried things before—all sorts of things—but nothing ever worked.
The do-gooders just never would admit that you can’t teach these
dumb, second-rate types!  But did that make ’em stop? 
Nope!  This time they decided to turn it into some sort of
noble experiment. Instead of just retraining displaced workers,
they changed the whole damn employment service!  You know the
motto:  ‘If you are willing to learn, you can be trained. If
you are willing to work, you can contribute.’” 

Wraggon sneered as he recited the slogan.
Yet, a small, lonely voice deep inside told him he had no cause for
complaint. It was this very program that had helped him. He was a
big-shot now with an important job. Trouble was, another part of
him insisted,
anyone
could be a big-shot now. That didn’t
mean much when the little-shots were just robots.

“Sure,” said Barnard, “my ol’ man, he went
through that retraining. Seven or eight years ago, I think it was.
He was a construction engineer, but he didn’t like it anymore.
Wanted ta do somethin’ completely different. So he went ta th’
employment service an’ found out they needed chemistry teachers at
a small college near here. He went back ta school an’ wound up
teachin’ there. He’s department head, now. I was aroun’ 18
then—maybe 19. Or was that the time my mother took the
training?  Can’t think real clear right now. Head’s startin’
ta hurt. Anyway, I remember we lived on trainin’ allotment checks
fer awhile.”

“Your old man was lucky. Got himself a job
where he could order a bunch of students around. And now, some
other teachers, too. But what about the rest of us?  And how
about the job he left?  The construction engineer job? 
Some know-nothing spade or wetback takes the training and gets the
job. Suddenly, he’s respectable. He tells a bunch of robbies what
to do, same as I do.”

“Come to think of it,” Barnard observed,
pursuing his earlier line of thought,” the creep that Aurora took
up with, I heard he used ta be with th’ Fleet. Navigator, I think.
He’s the one got Aurora ta quit and go learn how ta paint flowers
with ’im!”