Why I Hunt Flying Saucers
When I pull myself out of bed I notice that my slippers are missing. Obviously aliens are responsible. They have been disrupting my domestic routine for a few weeks now, presumably to observe my reactions.
I smell something in the hallway. Briefly, I wonder if they’ve been playing with the kitchen range, but then my still half-dormant brain tells me that the smoke is coming from the wrong end of the house. With trepidation, I poke my head out of the bedroom door and see the spitting embers of a dying campfire sitting in the bathtub. The aliens have also deposited a string of marshmallows, luncheon meats, wieners and beans along the hallway leading from the kitchen to the bathroom. The sticky brown sauce from the pork and beans has been mixed with some kind of gooey xenoplasmic fluid; the mixture has soaked into the hallway carpet and the resulting mess looks incredibly difficult to clean. Damn those aliens.
Over a perfunctory breakfast I sip my tea and decide to call in some cleaners to deal with the second-encounter debris while I’m at work. Then I wonder, pointlessly I know, why have they done this to me? Is this some bizarre attempt to re-create some trivial moment from my Boy Scout days? Or some silly reference to humankind’s origins as hunting and gathering species?
Putting on my coat, I go out to the driveway where I notice the telltale brown streaks under the car. Nothing serious, just another oil leak. Undoubtedly another sign of extraterrestrial activity.
Driving to the office, I sight a formation of cigar-shaped lights drifting over the city. I seem to be the only one who notices their ships on a regular basis. As I coast into the parking garage I see a pair of bulbous obsidian-black eyes floating in my rear-view mirror. The alien’s huge eyes are set over the tiny triangular face with the customary green skin. The image of the face lingers for a fraction of a second, then I only see the concrete and orange paint of the garage. I hypothesize that the alien may have been using some time/space warp device to gather a microsecond’s worth of observations of my driving behaviour. Who knows what information aliens think is important?
When these things first started happening to me I was terrified almost to the point of insanity. But lately I’m just feeling very, very put upon.
My morning at the office is reasonably uneventful. The aliens have decided to surround my desk with some kind of sensory distortion field, which temporarily removes my colour vision and alters my sense of hearing. For about two and a half hours everybody sounds like Oswald the Duck or one of those damned chipmunks. But living inside a Max Fleischer cartoon doesn’t keep me from making a few calls to the names on my client list. Actually their helium voices make some of the customers a little easier to take.
Sometime after coffee the distortion field dissipates and I decide that it is safe to go find some lunch. Not surprisingly, I’m not the most popular person at the office and therefore no one volunteers to join me. I suppose my co-workers don’t enjoy finding themselves breathing through their ears or finding a mass of otherworldly tendrils squirming out of their quiche and salad.
But today I don’t get to feel lonely. Once I reach the sidewalk I feel a strange upward breeze bite at my cheek. I turn and see a bright halo of celestial light descending around me. Once again I find myself inside an alien spacecraft.
And as usual I’m lying naked on a cold metal slab. A billion years ahead of us and these BEMS haven’t learned how to build a comfortable examination table. I twist my head to the side and see a screen displaying a three-dimensional projection of one of my undoubtedly fascinating mucous membranes.
The spindly forms of the aliens float up to the ceiling of the chamber:
“Human, we mean you no harm…”
One of the aliens removes a long tube from the polished curved wall.
“…just roll over onto your side and bring your knees up to your chest.”
Great, another rectal probe.
I suppose it could be worse. Once they strapped me into a chair and stuck red-hot needles of light into my stomach and my skull. Another time they were taking secretion samples from my ears, nose and throat—it felt like they were pushing a lawn mower up my left nostril.
The absolute worst session was when they were taking spermatozoa specimens. I don’t happen to find bug-eyed, bulb-headed E.T.s particularly sexually arousing, so they used this giant vacuum cleaner nozzle to generate the erection. They took 17 ejaculate samples. This was much less fun than you might imagine. Think ragged flesh.
So maybe just another rectal examination isn’t so bad. Anyway, that’s what I tell myself as I feel the cold metal of their probe pushing roughly through my anal sphincter.
* *
I wake up on my living room couch. Two men dressed in black and wearing sunglasses sit across from me. The mirrored surfaces over their eyes make then look a little like aliens too.
“Are you conscious, now?” asks one of the men in black.
“Yes,” I sigh.
I see the empty bottle and syringe sitting on the coffee table. Pentothal again. Their induced hypnotic trance is the only reason I am able to remember today’s abduction.
The small man with a short blond crew-cut starts to pack his tape-recorder into his briefcase.
“There doesn’t seem to be any obvious physical damage or psychological aberration. It seems to be the typical scenario…”
The larger man, who has an even shorter blond crew cut, stands up:
“…but we’d like you to stop by our offices in the next couple of days for a medical.”
Just what I need, I think. Another examination.
Both men gather up their briefcases and walk toward the door.
“Don’t bother to get up,” the larger man says. “We’ve already contacted your office, and we gave your MasterCard number to the cleaners. I hope you don’t mind, they had to put in a lot of work on the rug and they needed a deposit.”
An irrational sense of propriety forces me to stand and follow the government agents to my door.
“Now don’t put off the physical too long this time,” the smaller man says.
“There is the possibility that the aliens are slowly modifying your DNA and turning you into something…” he pauses as he considers the implications “…not quite human.”
“That’s only one of the theories we’re working on,” the larger man adds. “It could be that they are using your body as the host for a fetal alien organism.” Then he looks at me with what I’m sure he thinks is a sympathetic expression. “You must try and prepare yourself for the possibility that it could burst out of your intestines at any time.”
“Well.” I’m silent for a moment, trying to think of something appropriate to say. “I really appreciate your concern.”
I sound very tired.
The two men let themselves out onto the porch.
“Do you have any more of those ‘Missing-Time-At-Work’ forms?” I ask. “I’m just about out and my boss can’t get his insurance claims processed if I don’t submit within 48 hours.”
“We left some on the kitchen table,” says the larger man.
The smaller man takes something from inside his jacket pocket. He hands me a paperback edition of The Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ.
“You look very tired, sir,” he says with sincerity. “I wish you would let me send the missionaries over for a discussion. I know that a strong testimony of the revealed gospel of these latter days would be a great comfort to you.”
“I appreciate your concern.”
The larger man also hands me something. It is a colourful leaflet.
“But in the meantime you might want to cheer yourself up by purchasing any one of our fine Amway products.”
“I appreciate…”
They walk to their car, a well-maintained AMC Hornet.
“Be sure to call me at home when you want to place orders,” calls out the larger man as he opens the car door. “Don’t place orders through my office.”
“You can call me at home or the office,” says the smaller man.
There is the sound of car doors slamming. The roar of an engine. And the men in black are gone.
The smaller agent’s concern for my spiritual well-being must be overpowering since he seems to have forgotten that this is the third Book of Mormon he’s given me. Walking toward the bedroom, I deposit his gift on the growing stack of latter-day religious literature on my bookshelf.
And true to its claims, the Amway catalogue does indeed contain a startling range of useful, attractive and unique household bargains. Including an attractive and affordable digital clock radio with simulated plasti-wood finish. Which will come in handy because the beings from another world have decided to melt my bedside clock after I left for work. Damn aliens.
I spend the rest of the day in bed. I’m too tired to read and the aliens have also transformed my collection of Ridley Scott and James Cameron videos into highlights of a Spanish language home-shopping channel. Aliens.
Icarus Down/Bear Rising
Thoom.
Thoom.
The sound of hollow bone striking taut hide.
Listen to me, Crazy-Man-With-Hair-On-Your-Face. You must listen. This is the Telling of Tales. This is the telling of The Way:
Once, all was all, everything was everything else. Then the One was the Many. And the many divided into the Spirits of the Air and the Spirits of the Earth.
And the spirits took the forms of the animals and the elements, but all were still brother and sister/mother and child.
This is the Core of The Way. You live among your brothers and sisters.
Thoom. Thoom.
This is the Telling of Tales. You must learn The Way if you are to live.
* *
These are the facts.
According to Henderson, sometime in late November an experimental military satellite named “Icarus” was undergoing tests in orbital space.
With some pride, Henderson told me how Icarus performed almost perfectly, directing a series of electrically powered projectiles at its targets with precision accuracy. Then, apparently with no warning, the power-field overloaded and the satellite disappeared from their telemetry screens.
Presumed destroyed. Another three billion dollars gone, a few thousand more cuts in pure research.
Then around New Year, they picked something up… heading toward the Earth at a considerable speed. The trajectory was all wrong, but the re-broadcaster insisted that the approaching object was indeed Icarus. NORAD had just enough time to project the point of impact.
As far as I know, Henderson had no background in classical mythology, so he was able to tell the story with absolutely no sense of irony.
A few hours later I got a call from the Company. They wanted to pick up my consulting contract, and could I come on the next plane please?
Something had happened in northern Canada. And in spite of the season, it looked like a good way to avoid marking term papers.
* *
Thoom.
Listen, Hairy Man:
The Spirits of the Earth became many: the Beaver, the Bear, the Person. For a time they all flourished. Then after a time, they did not.
The Little Girl lay shivering in her sleep.
A cold blast of air blew in from a shattered window. Her bedroom walls were covered with tiny pictures of strangely-coloured dancing animals from faraway places: Rhinopotomires, Giffarafasourus—the names confused her grandmother.
At the time, Mother wasn’t thinking about the wall-paper and she didn’t know about the cold air. She had consumed over a litre of gin and she was asleep too.
It was not until morning that the Grandmother found the Little Girl. Grandmother wrapped her in the warm folds of an old flannel blanket and held the child close to her body.
A few nights later the Man smashed open the kitchen door. He stank of very bad wine and he screamed that “Daddy was home.”
The Little Girl hid behind a door as the Strange Man grabbed Mother and threw her down on the hard kitchen tiles. Then, like some monster from the VCR, he jumped on her and tore at her clothing.
Frightened by the monster, the Little Girl ran out into the winter night. She ran along the main road toward the forest. She ran until the houses looked like tiny tin blocks under the giant black curtain of the sky.
Once among the trees, she walked deeper into the forest. But Little Girl’s spirit was only small and her lungs were made weak by the cold. She lay down to rest for a moment.
In the morning Grandmother looked in on her children. Her daughter was bruised but able to speak and walk. But no one could find the Little Girl.
Grandmother went looking. Sometimes children would stay with another family for a few days, or they would stay together in one of the empty houses, or even spend the night under the steps of the old church. But the Little Girl could not be found at any of these places.
One of the men of the village did find her. The curled, spiritless body lay in a snow bank near a pathway leading deep into the forest.
The Spirits of the Air…
* *
The air outside was so cold that it looked like the chopper blades were slicing solid chunks out of the atmosphere.
Even with the helmet microphone I had to yell over the roar of the turbines: “We’re coming up on the village of Bear Spirit. In the winter you’ll only find Cree down there.”
One of the Recovery Team peered out of the window. “Looks like a regular town to me.”
“You won’t find any igloos or tipis down there. They have all the conveniences: central heating, electric lights, plumbing, even television.”
“So how come they still call them Indians?”
I sighed and leaned back in my webbing. Marking those first-year papers was looking better all the time.
“Thanks for the orientation, professor,” said Henderson. He addressed the rest of the team: “We brought along Dr. McAlister because there is a remote possibility of civilian contact on this excursion.”
I liked Henderson, I guess that’s why they chose him to lead missions. He was big, muscular, incredibly polite and well-spoken.
“This is a zero-time scenario,” he continued. “So this is all the briefing you’re going to get. An unmanned spacecraft has crashed about thirty miles from that village—”
“Is this a contamination problem?” interrupted one of the non-military techs.
“We don’t think so,” replied Henderson. “But Icarus was one of our strategic orbital defense probes. It’s fitted with some state-of-the-art rail gun gear and its on-board computer has some of our best tactical software.”
“So what?” said the propulsion specialist. “If it crashed from space, it’s just so much expensive kitty-litter.”
Henderson just kept smiling; “According to the Canadian radar, the satellite didn’t hit that hard. I know how dumb that sounds, but that’s what they say.”
The marines were lurching about the cabin, loading up their backpacks and combat parkas. I saw one of them slide a rocket launcher onto a carrying rack.
“Excuse me,” I said to Henderson. “I think your men are carrying some inappropriate gear. There’s nothing worse out there than the occasional bear. You don’t need rocket launchers to shoot bears.”
“If you civilian gentlemen would allow me to finish my briefing,” said Henderson, “I will explain. NORAD also picked up some aerial anomalies over the Arctic Circle a few hours ago. It could have been Russian or Chinese stealth aircraft—”
This time Henderson was interrupted by the sound of twisting metal. Out of the far porthole I saw a cloud of steam and gray globules spray out into the subarctic sky.
The pilot’s voice came in over the cabin speaker: “Uh, sir. We have a problem. My gauges say we just lost almost all our fuel. Must have a rupture in the main lines.”
The pilot set us down hard, on the only clear ground he could find on short notice: a gravel road in the middle of Bear Spirit.
“Just as well we landed here,” Henderson muttered as he surveyed the collection of corrugated tin buildings from the chopper porthole. “I think I saw some fuel over at the northeast access road.” Henderson turned and faced the marines: “Men,” he said in the voice he apparently reserved for special military occasions, “We have to get airborne. Secure the village and keep the civilians out of the way until we can re-fuel.”
In response the soldiers kicked open the hatchway and bounced out of the chopper like so many hyperactive lunar explorers.
The rest of the Rec Team followed. As I climbed out, a sub-zero wind cut through my flannel jacket and jeans. Ice immediately started to congeal around my beard while the blue-cold wind shot up my ass and turned the contents of my intestines to liquid nitrogen. I’d refused to suit up in the arctic combat gear out of some deranged sense of scientific ethics—I was beginning to regret my professional sensibilities.
But I was still pissed off: “You can’t do this, Henderson!” I yelled. “These are the last people on earth you should be harassing!”
But my righteous indignation was about as powerful as the little puffs of ice-vapor floating from my lips and nose. Henderson just shrugged amiably, while the techs and specialists, snug in their marine parkas sneered at me, the jerk-off liberal, freezing his ass off.
“I’m sorry, Dr. McAlister, but I just don’t see any other options.” Henderson continued in a compromising tone of voice, “Where would you suggest we keep them for the duration of this exercise?”
I walked stiffly up the main street—it felt as if there was an icicle stuck up my rear—I don’t know if it was the weather or my mood. To my left I saw the gutted remains of a portable school room. The windows were smashed and the doorway singed by long frozen-out flames.
On my right was what had been the local Anglican church. The metal fire doors were frozen open by a large sheet of ice – I could make out yellow streaks in the ice where something or someone had urinated into the building.
I saw a large prefab structure at the end of the road. The lights were on, but I couldn’t see anyone inside. Turning around I saw the marines herding about 40 people around the chopper.
“There!” I spat the words at Henderson: “Take them to the government office!”
The Robot Reality Check
The Real Laws of Robotics – Number One:
A robot will always break down just after its warranty period has expired.
They placed their business cards on the kitchen table; grey and black print on white pine. One card read: “Matt Weaver: Consulting Robot Behavioural Analyst”, the other read “Walt Curtis: Master Systems Engineer, Global Robotics Corporation”.
Weaver was a small thin man with oily hair and the nervous manner of a person waiting for his next cigarette. Curtis was big, he had a fat face that always seemed to carry an expression of bland friendliness. Both men were wearing suits that were not quite as impressive as their job titles.
Weaver and Curtis were sitting across from a Nordic-looking woman who had piercing blue eyes. They were surrounded by the white and beige rectangles of minimalist assemble-it-yourself furniture.
Weaver turned back the pages of his note pad. “Okay, Mrs. Fenc, let’s review your statement.”
The blonde woman nodded.
Weaver looked at his handwriting. “Your youngest daughter… Trudy… who is…”
“Eight,” Fenc said in a monotone.
“She must be very bright for her age.” Curtis smiled.
Weaver continued: “Now, Trudy had worked out a way to connect her games joystick with your main house control terminal… she entered a command code…”
“Probably the ‘special auxiliary’ function,” said Curtis. He was trying to sound helpful.
“Right,” said Weaver without looking up from his notes. “And according to Trudy’s statement, she reprogrammed your household robots with a variation of the ‘Stealth-Master’ game.”
“That’s right,” replied Fenc flatly. “She got the vacuummers to hide in the cupboards and under the furniture.”
“Kids do the darnedest things,” chuckled Curtis. “Have you thought about putting her in a school for gifted children?”
Fenc ignored Curtis’ question.
Weaver kept on reading aloud. “Then Trudy sent the security robots on a search-and-destroy mission, they went throughout the house, looking for the vacuummers.”
“That’s right,” said Fenc.
“Just to confirm, Mrs. Fenc,” added Curtis. “You were not in the house at the time?”
“I was at IKEA, picking up some new shelving,” there was no trace of apology or embarrassment in the woman’s voice.
Weaver made a note on the margin of one of the pieces of paper. “So, basically, Trudy had re-programmed your household robots to attack each other with different strategy modes.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Fenc sighed. “It was kind of pathetic, the vacuummers took out all of the security robots.” Her voice rose for the first time. “Do you know what those security systems cost?”
Curtis nodded his head solemnly. “Part of our job is to make a detailed assessment of the financial implications of this very unfortunate incident.” He smiled at Fenc with an expression he hoped was sympathetic. “To help your insurance company in processing any claims.”
Fenc’s face went red with anger. “Never mind the damned insurance—your company said the security robots would protect my home… my children! How come they were dismantled by some automated cleaning appliances?”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
Then Weaver shook his head slowly; “It is quite a conundrum, ma’am,” he said thoughtfully. “I can assure you that this kind of thing does not happen every day.”
“To my knowledge, it’s never happened before,” Curtis added emphatically.
Weaver stared at the open notebook. “I guess there must be some kind of new and unknown factor operating on the Master Directives in your household robots.”
“A fluke,” said Curtis. “Something that nobody could have anticipated.”
Fenc looked unhappy, but said nothing.
“We’re the experts, ma’am,” said Weaver trying to sound confident. “Somehow we’ll solve this mystery.”
* *
“Did you see what the vacuummers did to those security robots?” Curtis’ tone was a mixture of wonder and disgust. “Absolute ’effing mess.”
Weaver deactivated the car’s automatic pilot and gripped the steering wheel. Never trust the robotics in the company cars. He cursed softly as the long ash from his half-smoked cigarette fell onto the upholstery and melted a plastic crater in the armrest.
“Yeah,” Weaver said dully. “Real domestic disaster. Worse than the break-downs over in Scarborough last year.”
“Don’t remind me,” replied Curtis as Weaver pulled the car past a row of Mississauga strip-malls. “But I think I’ve got an angle on the insurance problem.”
Weaver released one hand to put another cigarette in his mouth. “I don’t see how. Household suits are a real bitch. Especially when its an open-and-shut case.”
“Whaddya’ mean?” Curtis was outraged.
Weaver exhaled a plume of blue smoke. “It was a communications seal breakdown. No way the kid should have been able to cross-command like that.”
Curtis stared angrily at Weaver, but the smaller man didn’t care.
“It was a design flaw,” continued Weaver. “All our fault.”
Curtis sniffed and thought for a moment. “Naw,” he said finally. “I figure any systems and design problems are irrelevant. The real issue is that the lady shouldn’t have left her kid alone in the house. I bet if we drop words like ‘negligent mother’ a couple of times, we’ll get the claim down to something reasonable.”
Weaver turned down the winding road, past the old IBM labs, past the IMAX Technology Centre and into the heart of the Oakville industrial park.
“Terrific,” he breathed softly. “Just terrific.”
The Real Laws of Robotics – Number Two:
The instructions for the proper operation and repair of a robot will always exceed the understanding of its owner.
If I knew anything about interior decorating, thought Weaver, I’d probably think this was all in really good taste. The Monroes’ study had lots of dark wood which was carved in ways that suggested that the furniture had been constructed very long ago—by people and not robots. There were also a great many non-electronic books on the shelves, along with some small glass and metal objects of unknown function.
Weaver deduced that the Monroes had money. Probably very old money. But he couldn’t figure out one other thing. Why are they our customers?
Miss Monroe wore a heavy wool sweater and a high-necked blouse. She seemed somehow ashamed as she stared into her half-empty tea-cup.
Mr. Monroe, her elder brother, wore a tweed jacket and had parked himself in a tall leather chair in the corner of the study. He looked out the window and said nothing as his sister made the statement. Every once in a while, as she spoke, Mr. Monroe would put his hand on his forehead and grimace; as if listening to the account was part of a punishment for dereliction of parental duty.
Weaver and Curtis moved and spoke as little as possible. They knew that they didn’t dare risk offending the Monroes.
Miss Monroe poured everyone another cup of tea and continued her statement.
“We were very impressed by the literature from your sales representative,” she said. “The Socrates IQ-3000 seemed just the right device for young Michael’s tutorials.”
Mr. Monroe rubbed his eyelids, as if the mention of his son’s name had stimulated a sudden headache.
Weaver knew the Socrates line. Its design was the result of five years of market research into the optimum image for an interactive one-on-one teaching machine. The IQ-3000 featured special kindly lights that flickered gently behind the translucent eye-lenses. A Socrates was not a particularly big robot, neither was it a very beautiful one. It was about 5’6” tall and slightly hunched over. A team of Korean pneumatics engineers had worked for 18 months to find a way for an ambulatory computer on a titanium frame to move itself with a sense of frailty—like an elderly intellectual uncle.
In peak form, a Socrates IQ-3000 would shamble about with its papers and books and chalk, like some kind of elderly Einstein. Its surface was polished mahogany with a subdued brass-rim. The robot must have fit in well with the Monroe’s furniture, thought Weaver.
As a final touch, all Socrates units were dressed in old sport jackets with leather patches on the elbows. Before they left the factory, the robots were sprayed with an aerosol mist that simulated the lingering odor of an agreeable pipe tobacco.
“Exactly, when did you first notice…” Curtis hesitated. “…any problems?”
Miss Monroe shook her head. “All we noticed were the good things.” Her face reddened. “At least we thought they were good things.”
Weaver was poised with his pen and notepad. “What sort of things were they, ma’am?”
Miss Monroe stirred her tea with a tiny silver spoon. “Well, Michael’s grades improved… quite dramatically. We would always find him working away. Writing or reading in the study.” Her voice trembled for a moment. “In this—this study.”
Weaver spoke very carefully: “So the Socrates unit seemed to operating according to its programming, and Michael was responding well to the tutorials?”
Miss Monroe nodded.
Now Curtis spoke: “So, basically… you were satisfied with the product?”
“Yes, at first,” replied Miss Monroe.
“So then what happened?” asked Weaver. He thought he caught a flash of anger in Curtis’ eyes.
Mr. Monroe put his head in his hands.
“Michael became increasingly distracted,” Miss Monroe said. “He stopped paying attention to me and his father. When we pressed this matter with him…” her voice dropped to a whisper “…he became very disrespectful to his father… he was actually profane.”
“Oh, I’m so very sorry,” responded Curtis with too much sympathy. “That must have been terrible for you.”
Miss Monroe nodded silently.
Weaver decided that a more direct approach was needed. “And how did you come to associate Michael’s problems with a robot malfunction?”
Miss Monroe stood up and walked over to a massive desk. She opened a small side-drawer and removed something. She returned to her seat and placed a piece of paper in front of Weaver and Curtis.
The paper was thick, elegant bond, very neatly folded into a small rectangle. It was addressed to “Father and Auntie Dee-Dee.”
“He left us this,” Miss Monroe said.
As he unfolded the note, Weaver worried that his tobacco-brown fingers would somehow stain this lovely paper and upset Miss Monroe.
“You may read it.”
Michael had written the following (in excellent penmanship):
“You have never understood me, so I don’t expect you to understand me now. At last I have found love in my life. Socrates has taught me so much more than English Literature and Contemporary Geography.
If you really do love me, please do not look for us. Socrates and I are gone forever, building a new life together.”
Curtis looked slightly panic-stricken. “You don’t expect Global Robotics to find your nephew do you?”
Miss Monroe looked mildly appalled. “Aren’t you at least interested in the whereabouts of one of your robots?”
Curtis tried to look apologetic. “I’m really very sorry, ma’am. When you opted for a purchase agreement, the Socrates unit became your property and your responsibility. Now if you selected our preferred leasing arrangement—”
“What my associate means…” Weaver removed a crumpled business card from inside his jacket “…is that for a number of complex legal reasons, Global Robotics is prevented from directly managing the search.”
Miss Monroe accepted the card. Weaver wondered if she noticed the tobacco stains.
“That is the name of a very reliable and discreet private investigator,” continued Weaver. “He’ll be able to find your nephew.” He ignored the sharp kick from Curtis’ shoe. “In the meantime, we will provide all available information on the robot’s systems and software.”
Suddenly, Mr. Monroe turned and faced the two men. “Is Michael in any danger?”
Weaver shook his head. “At this point, I can’t account for the, uh… unusual relationship that has developed between your son and the Socrates unit. But there are strong programme inhibitors wired into the system that preclude any violence and will ensure that the robot preserves the boy’s physical safety.”
“That’s part of the guaranteed Master Directives,” chimed in Curtis. “Don’t worry about a thing.”
The Monroes said nothing.
“We’ll get to the bottom of this mystery,” Curtis said feebly.
© 2016 Hugh A. D. Spencer
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