More Tales of Pirx the Pilot (15 page)

“Cybertronics?”

“Cybertronics, Machintrex, Inteltron, to name just a few. The point is, the governments of these countries are worried about the fallout—jobwise. The private sector couldn’t care less about the financing of government retraining programs for those who’ll be phased out by the nonlínears.”

“Nonlinears, eh? Quaint.”

“Shorthand slang; it’s ‘in’ now. Anyhow, it’s better than ‘homunculus’ or ‘android.’ I mean, they aren’t human, after all.”

“Not fully interchangeable, you mean?”

“You know, Commander, I’m not an expert in such matters, either… Anyway, what
I
think is quite immaterial. The main thing is, one of the first comers would be COSNAV.”

“That privately owned Anglo-American company?”

“That’s the one. Cosmic Navigation has been floundering for years. The Communist bloc’s astronautical systems, being noncommercial, make for stiff competition, so stiff they’ve cornered the bulk of the cargo traffic. Especially on the extraterrestrial runs. You must know that.”

“Who doesn’t? Personally, I wouldn’t be a bit sorry if COSNAV went bust. If space exploration could be internationalized under the UN, why not the shipping trade? That’s my opinion, anyway.”

“Mine, too. Believe me, I’m all for it, if only because I’m sitting at this desk. But these are castles in the air. Meanwhile, COSNAV wants to corner the nonlinears for their own lines—at the moment, only for their cargo fleet; they’re afraid of a public boycott if they install them on their passenger lines. Preliminary negotiations are already under way, in fact.”

“And the media are keeping it under wraps?”

“The talks aren’t official. Some of the papers have dropped hints, but COSNAV categorically denies everything. Technically, they’re right, Commander. It’s an honest-to-goodness labyrinth. The truth is, they’re operating in a legally shady area, beyond any national or even UN jurisdiction. And with the elections not far away, the President doesn’t dare try to railroad through Congress any of the bills backed by the powerful intellectronic lobby—for fear of antagonizing the professional unions. That’s why—and this is the real crux of the matter—a number of firms, anticipating adverse publicity, protests from organized labor, and so on, decided to let us test a group of semi-prototypes—”

“Excuse me, by ‘us’ do you mean the UN? Isn’t that a little—”

“By ‘us’ I mean UNESCO; you know, the United Nations Education, Scientific—”

“Sorry, but I still don’t—I mean, what do these robots have to do with education, science…?”

“An ‘invasion,’ as you put it, of those … uh … pseudo people has everything to do with human culture. It’s not just a case of economics—the risk of higher unemployment and so on. The implications are legion: psychological, social, cultural. By the way, just for the record, we accepted their offer with reluctance. In fact, the administration would have rejected it out of hand, except the company made assurances that the nonlinears were a better safety risk. Quicker reflexes, immune to fatigue or illness, great energy reserves, functional even during decompression or overheating, not dependent on oxygen or food. These are real gains—not as profits in some owner’s pocket, but as they benefit ship and cargo safety. In which case, the credit, or at least some of the credit… I mean, a test flight sponsored by the UN…”

“I see. But wouldn’t that be setting a dangerous precedent?”

“Why dangerous?”

“Who knows what other professions and administrative positions might not be phased out. Even yours.”

The director gave a somewhat forced laugh, which quickly abated.

“Well, well … that’s beside the point. But what would you do in our position? Even if we were to turn them down, what good would it do? If the nonlinears are really that good, COSNAV will get its robots anyway, and the others will be next in line.”

“What’s to be gained by having UNESCO act as engineering consultant?”

“Who said anything about engineering? What we wanted—and I may as well give it to you straight—was for you to take command of that flight. In the space of one to two weeks—don’t forget, there will be different models aboard—you’ll know what sort of crew you have. All we ask is that on your return you submit a complete rundown, point by point, of their astronautical as well as psychological fitness: how do they adjust to man, are they true to type, do they inspire a sense of superiority, or on the contrary of inferiority… Our people will supply you with forms prepared by the top psychologists in the field.”

“And that would be my mission?”

“You don’t have to commit yourself right away. As I recall, you’re on leave anyway.”

“On a six-week furlough.”

“You could give us your decision, say, in a couple of days.”

“Two more questions. How decisive will my report be?”

“Very.”

“For whom?”

“For us, of course. UNESCO. If the shipping trade is ever to be internationalized, your verdict will be crucial to those UN committees.”

“Those—excuse me—castles in the air you mentioned. Crucial to UNESCO, in other words? Not that UNESCO will be turned into an agency…?”

“Not a chance! Your appraisal will be publicized worldwide. A negative rating would seriously impair negotiations between COSNAV and those companies. That way, we’ll be contributing—”

“Excuse me again. Meaning that if it’s positive, we won’t?”

The director cleared his throat, then smiled.

“You almost make me feel guilty, Commander. It wasn’t we at UNESCO who invented those nonlinear robots. We try to be impartial, to accommodate everyone.”

“That’s just what I don’t like.”

“You can always say no. But remember, if we were to do the same, we’d be no better than Pontius Pilate. Washing your hands of everything is easy. We’re not a world government; we can’t outlaw the manufacture of this or of any other system. That’s up to the individual governments. Anyway, they’ve tried—believe me, I know. So has the church, and you know where they stand on the issue.”

“In short, all are against it, but no one does anything about it.”

“No legal grounds.”

“Those firms will be the first to feel it when the unemployment rate—”

“Now it’s my turn to interrupt. There’s truth in what you say. We all tremble at the prospect. Still, we’re powerless. Or maybe not quite. We can still go ahead with the experiment. Actually, it’s all to the good that you’re biased. That makes you the ideal candidate. If there are the slightest reservations, you’ll make them known!”

“Let me sleep on it,” said Pirx, and he got up.

“Didn’t I hear you say something about
two
questions?”

“You’ve already answered the other one. I wanted to know why me.”

“Phone us your decision in two days’ time. A deal?”

“A deal,” said Pirx, who nodded and took his leave.

The secretary, a platinum blonde, sprang up from behind her desk.

“Good morning,” said Pirx. “I—”

“Good morning. Follow me, please.”

“They’re here already?”

“They’re waiting for you.”

She took him down a deserted corridor, her high heels tapping like tiny metal stilts. The cavernous hall, tiled with synthetic granite, resonated coldly, stonelike. They passed dark doors mounted with aluminum numbers and plates. The secretary seemed nervous. Several times she glanced furtively at Pirx. Not a flirting glance; more like fearful. Pirx felt somehow sorry for her and, along with it, sensed the absolute folly of the affair. Suddenly he asked, startling even himself with his question:

“Have you seen them?”

“Just briefly. In passing.”

“What are they like?”

“Oh—you haven’t seen them?”

She seemed almost relieved. As if familiarity bespoke membership in some strange, perhaps sinister conspiracy.

“There are six all together. One even spoke to me. Absolutely convincing! Not a single telltale sign! If I’d met him in the street, I’d never have dreamed… But when I took a closer look, there was something in his eyes, and here.” She touched her lips.

“The others, too?”

“They were standing outside in the corridor.”

They got into the elevator; tiny golden grains of light snaked up the wall. Standing face to face with the girl, Pirx was better able to judge the success of her efforts to erase all vestiges of her own individuality—with the help of pencil, mascara, and lipstick—to become a momentary facsimile of Inda Lea, or whatever the name was of that season’s fashionably frazzled star. When she fluttered her eyelids, he was concerned for her false lashes.

“Robots!” she said in a deep whisper, and shuddered as if brushed by a reptile.

The tenth-floor suite was occupied by six men, all seated. The moment Pirx entered, one of them, until now hidden by a sheet of the
Herald Tribune
, folded his paper, rose, and approached him with a broad smile. The others stood up as if on cue.

They were more or less of equal height and looked like test pilots in civvies: broad-shouldered, beige-suited, white-shirted, loud-tíed. Two were fair-haired, one a redhead, the others dark, but all had the same clear blue eyes. That was all he had a chance to record before the one who had approached him stuck his hand into Pirx’s and, pumping it vigorously, said, “McGuirr’s the name. I once had the pleasure of sailing under your command—on the
Pollux,
it was. But you wouldn’t remember me…”

“Sorry,” admitted Pirx.

McGuirr turned to the others, who were stationed around a circular table littered with magazines.

“Men, meet Commander Pirx, your new CO. Commander, your crew: John Calder, chief pilot; Harry Brown, copilot; Andy Thomson, nucleonics engineer; John Burton, radio-electronics engineer, and Thomas Bums, neurologist, cyberneticist, and medic all rolled into one.”

Pirx shook hands with each, then all sat down, sliding their metal-framed chairs, which bent under the weight of their bodies, up closer to the table. Silence reigned until it was rent by McGuirr’s stentorian baritone.

“On behalf of the board of directors of Cybertronics, Inteltron and Nortronics, thank you for showing such confidence in our undertaking. To avoid any possible misunderstandings, I should warn you that some among us were born of mothers and fathers, others not. Each knows of his own origin, but not of the others’. You’ll be decent enough, I trust, not to probe or pry. Otherwise, you will have a completely free hand. They will be conscientious, and show initiative and character, both on and off duty. But when asked who or what they are, they have all been taught a standard reply: normal human beings. It’s not a matter of lying but of necessity, dictated by our mutual interest.”

“No questions asked; is that it?”

“Of course you can ask. But since no one will be above suspicion, why bother, frankly? True or false, you’ll always get the same answer.”

“Which is it in your case?” asked Pirx.

There was a split second’s pause before all burst out laughing, McGuirr’s cackle being the loudest.

“You
are
a comedian. Me, I’m just a tiny cog in the Nortronics machine…”

A straight-faced Pirx waited for the laughter to die down.

“The joke’s on me, in other words?”

“I beg your pardon! The deal spoke of a ‘new type of crew’; it said nothing about its uniformity. We just wanted to forestall any … purely irrational bias. It stands to reason, doesn’t it? We’re only trying to create the optimal test conditions, to ensure maximum impartiality.”

“Thanks loads!” said Pirx. “Well, tricked or not, I’m not backing out. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get acquainted with my”—he hesitated—“people…”

“Hear them recite their qualifications, you mean? By all means! Don’t mind me! Shoot!”

McGuirr extracted a cigar from the upper pocket of his smock, cropped the end, and lit it, while five pairs of serene and attentive eyes reposed on Pirx’s face. The two blonds, both pilots, looked somewhat alike, though Calder had more Scandinavian features, his curly hair looking almost sun-bleached. Brown’s was the color of gold; his doll-like, cherubic features, as of a male fashion model, having a prettiness offset only by the jaws and the constant, seemingly sardonic curl of his colorless thin lips. A white scar ran diagonally across his cheek from the left-hand corner of his mouth. It was on him that Pirx’s gaze settled first.

“Great…” he said, as if in delayed response to McGuirr’s invitation, and in the same almost offhand tone, he inquired of the man with the scar:

“Do you believe in God?”

Brown’s lips quivered—a suppressed smile? an ironic sneer?—but he made no immediate answer. He looked freshly shaven, a few hairs in the vicinity of his ear and the flecks of foam visible on his cheeks testifying to a job done in some haste.

“Not my department, sir,” he answered in a pleasant, purling voice.

McGuirr, caught off guard by Pirx’s question, his eyes blinking, suddenly exhaled a trapped puff of cigar smoke, as if to say, “How’s that for a comeback?”

“Mr. Brown,” said Pirx in the same phlegmatic voice, “you haven’t answered my question.”

“Sorry, Commander, but as I said, it’s not my—”

“As your commanding officer, I’m the one who decides what your duties are.”

McGuirr’s face registered surprise. Throughout this exchange, the others sat like model pupils, stiff-backed and with undivided attention.

“If that’s an order,” answered Brown in his soft, clearly modulated baritone, “I can only say I haven’t been sufficiently trained to deal with that problem.”

“Well, think it over for tomorrow. Your signing on will depend on it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pirx turned to Calder, and their eyes met. The suite’s spacious window was reflected in the chief pilot’s nearly transparent irises.

“You’re a pilot?”

“I am.”

“Your credentials?”

“I’m certified in team piloting, I’ve soloed two hundred ninety hours on low tonnage, and I’ve made ten solo landings, including four on the Moon and two on Mars and Venus.”

Pirx, seemingly unimpressed, went on to the next.

“Burton,” he said, “are you the radio-electronics engineer?”

“Yes.”