The Warlock`s Companion

Chapter 2

"Time enough for you to learn the business next year." Reggie's father handed him the check for a million. "All I want is, you should have a good time, Joe."

"How can I help it?" Reggie looked at the check, gloating. He was so grateful that he didn't even remind the old man about the name change. "Thanks, Pop!"

" 'S all right." The elder Vapochek waved his cigar negligently. "The dog bootie sales're going pretty good, and the parakeet sweater production is way up. We can afford some time for you to, like, sow your wild oats. Just get 'em outa your system." Pop gave a leering chuckle. "You got a lotta sowing to do, boy, if you wanna break my record—and I had to do it when I had time off from the steelworks!"

"Boy, you can bet I will, Pop! Starting with a sports car!"

"Oh?" Pop's eye glinted. "What you got your eye on?"

"One of those new Heatrash jobs, Pop, with the afterburners and the double-strength antigrav."

"Yeah, I heard about them. Got one of them new FCC robot brains for a guidance computer, don't it?"

"Yeah—and cashmere upholstery half a foot thick, a built-in autobar, 360-degree sound, light show on the ceiling…"

"So who's gonna be watching the ceiling?" And the elder Vapochek guffawed, waving the boy away with his cigar. "Go on, go have your fun! Just gimme a ride in it, you hear?"

The comely young lady stared as the aircar drifted out of its stall. At the wheel, Reggie noticed her attention and grinned, but pretended not to see her—so he was a bit crestfallen when she only sighed, shook her head, and walked on by below him. "Snooty broad," he growled.

"I do not recognize that command, master," the dashboard answered.

"I wasn't talking to you, bolt-brain!… Probably just jealous."

"Yes, master," the dashboard answered.

"How would you know?" Reggie snarled. "Just get over to Shirley's place—and don't spare the horses!"

"This vehicle is not powered by animals' muscles."

"Okay, the horsepower, then! Just get!" And Reggie leaned back in the plush embrace of the seat, muttering, "Snooty machine."

The aircar rose fifty feet, then hovered, hesitating.

"What's the hold-up?" Reggie snarled. "Get going!"

"There is an omnibus approaching on an intersect course at one thousand feet, master."

"So dodge it, then! Oh, hell! Give me that wheel!" Reggie leaned forward, slapping the toggle to "manual," and tromped on the accelerator. The aircar shot upward, so fast as to give him the distinct feeling that he'd left his stomach on the pavement. Reggie grinned, reveling in the sensation.

"Intersect impending!" the computer blared, but Reggie just grinned wider, staring up at the looming bus. He'd wait just a second or two longer, then swerve aside at the last minute and give those yerkels on the bus something to cuss about…

The aircar jarred to a halt so suddenly that his dental implants almost uprooted. The bus snored by a good hundred feet overhead, its passengers totally oblivious to his existence.

Reggie let loose a stream of profanity intermixed with an occasional word that bore some meaning. By sorting syllables, the computer pieced together an approximation of "What did you do that for?"

"We were on an intersect course with the omnibus," the computer explained. "In three seconds more, we would have impacted in a midair collision, which would not have been beneficial to your health."

"The hell with my health! I would've slid by with meters to spare! You just ruined the move of the century!"

The computer was silent, then explained, "I had no knowledge of your intentions."

"You don't need to know my intentions! If I damn well choose to commit suicide, that's my damn business, not yours!"

"I am programmed for accordance with all civil and criminal laws," the computer answered. "I cannot behave in breach of them."

"You're not behaving—I am! What about your programming to obey me?"

"Such programming must nonetheless avoid conflict with law."

"Let me worry about the law! If I slap the override, it's my problem, not yours!"

"The law will not allow…"

"The law won't sell you for scrap metal if you disobey!" Reggie howled. "But I will! Now you get your gears over to Shirley's place! And don't you ever override my override again!"

The computer was silent, registering the command as a change in its program. It was a change that created internal conflict, though, and the computer assigned part of its capacity to trying to resolve the apparent contradiction. (It assumed, as it was programmed to, that such a contradiction must be only apparent, not real.)

Reggie settled back into the cushions of the contoured couch that covered three sides of the car, grumbling, "Dumb machine… Hey!" He glared at the dashboard. "Let's have a martini, here!"

The panel at his elbow slid open. Reggie's glower lightened as he took out a frosty glass of clear fluid with an olive nestled amid ice cubes. "Got one thing right in your programming, anyway," he muttered.

The computer wisely didn't answer. Instead, it consulted the city map in its memory, compared it with the address Reggie had given when he had climbed in, corrected for pronunciation, homonyms, and spelling, and turned sixty-eight degrees clockwise as it accelerated so smoothly that Reggie snarled, "Can't you move this bucket any faster?"

The valet opened the door and ushered Reggie in. "Miss Delder will be with you presently, sir."

"Fine, fine. Y' got a martini here?"

It materialized so quickly that Reggie found himself wondering if the valet was a robot. Unfortunately, as he took his first sip, Shirley swirled into the room in a flurry of taffeta. "How prompt you are, Reggie! Come, let's be off! I'm positively famished."

Reggie just barely managed to slap the glass back into the valet's hand as he flew out the door. She could at least have taken long enough for me to finish the drink!

Then it occurred to him that Shirley might have had that notion in mind. That boded ill—her being ready when he arrived. Was she sending him a message?

No, she was freezing in her tracks, eyes huge, gasping, "Oh, Reggie! You didn't tell me!"

She was staring straight at the Heatrash, of course. Reggie allowed himself a grin. "Only fifty M."

"I want one!" Shirley reached out to caress the door panel, and Reggie felt a stab of jealousy. "How about you get in?" he suggested.

"I'd love to!"

The door slid back, and a resonant voice murmured, "Mademoiselle is welcome."

Shirley lifted her head, eyes glowing. "Well! Whoever programmed this one knew how to treat a lady!"

"It's an FCC robot," Reggie said, offhandedly.

"That new Faithful Cybernetic Companion series?" Sudden wariness in Shirley's eyes. "They're programmed for extreme personal loyalty, aren't they?"

"Well… yeah…"

"We are also programmed with the most profound respect for all human beings," the robot assured her, "unless there is a direct, physical attack endangering our owners. Will you enter, mademoiselle?"

"Well… if you put it that way…" Shirley stepped in.

Reggie followed—quickly, just in case she or the robot developed ideas—and the door rolled shut.

Shirley nestled into the cashmere cushions. "I always did like being a sybarite."

"Hey, that's great!" Reggie slid closer.

"On the other hand, there are limits." Shirley edged away from him. "When are we going to start?"

"We are already airborne, Mademoiselle" the computer informed her.

Shirley stared. "I didn't even feel the lift!"

"Sissy car," Reggie muttered.

"We are programmed for smooth operation."

"So'm I," Reggie said, inching over.

Shirley inched too, till she was leaning back against the side. "You really provide comfort, car."

"Just give me a chance," Reggie offered, sliding over farther.

"Even a bar!" Shirley rose and spun over Reggie's lap to the door side, to exam the autobar panel. "There're no pressure patches!"

"I am programmed for oral input, mademoiselle."

"Wonderful!" Shirley settled back again. "Chablis, if you don't mind."

"I'll take a martini," Reggie sighed. It looked as though that was all he was going to get, for the time being.

"Don't you think you might wait for the food to catch up to the alcohol?"

"What'sh to worry? I haven't had all that many," Reggie said breezily.

Shirley held her breath till the breeze had passed; it had rather high octane.

"Would monsieur care to order?"

Reggie glowered up at the waiter. Probably learned his accent from watching old movies. "Yeah, uh—juh prefer-ray un verr dough fresh."

"Bon, monsieur," the waiter said, straight-faced, ignoring the glass of ice water sitting in front of Reggie and the pinching of Shirley's lips. "And for the entree?"

"Yeah, uh—boof burganyone." He looked up at Shirley. "You were talking about the chicken?"

Shirley nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"Blanks duh capon cordone blue."

Shirley winced.

"Bon, monsieur." The waiter jotted the order with a flourish and took their menus.

"And, uh—make the boof well done, would you?"

"Well done, monsieur." The waiter made an ostentatious note on his pad. "Will there be anything else?"

"Nah, that's fine."

The waiter inclined his head and turned away.

"Did I hear it right?" Shirley demanded. "Did you actually tell him to make your boeuf bourguignon well done?"

"Yeah, sure." Reggie frowned. "I don't like it bloody."

"Sh!" Shirley glanced frantically at the neighboring tables, but apparently no one there was British—or else they were well bred. Then she leaned forward to hiss, "What do you think boeuf bourguignon is—steak?''

"Well, sure. I mean, steak is beef—so…"

"Beef is steak. Sure." Shirley nodded, resigned. "Flawless logic, Plato."

"Hey!" Reggie frowned. "I ain't no mouse's dog! Come on, Shirl."

"Shirley," she snapped.

Reggie sighed, leaning back in his chair as he began to realize that the evening was not going well. He wondered why she was such a stickler about using her whole name. The girls back in college had been that way, too—or at least, at his last college, the big one his pop had bought him into after the business started, really paying off. Back at Sparta C.C. the girls had been the all-right kind, but these big college skirts were a bunch of snobs.

Like Shirl. Shirley.

"So what do you want to do after dinner? Take in a movie?"

She brightened. "Wonderful idea—I always love those old flat-screen shows."

Reggie winced; that hadn't been what he'd had in mind.

"Bergman's Seventh Seal is playing at the Cinema Classiqe."

The closest Reggie had ever come to Bergman was a film course he had taken in junior college; he had passed it by getting enthusiastic Rathskellar descriptions from students who had seen the assigned movies. "Hey, maybe live theater would be more like it. I could get tickets to a nudie show at one of those off-off-off-Broadway places."

Shirley managed to keep the shudder down to her shoulders. "Why don't we just go to a cabaret?"

"Yeah!" Reggie said, with a lascivious grin.

"Not that kind! I know where there's a nice soft-jazz group playing."

Reggie sighed. "Okay, baby, it's your party."

"I'm fully grown, Reggie."

"Boy, are you ever!… Oh. Uh, sorry…"

"Your soup, sir."

Reggie looked up to see the waiter smiling benevolently. He looked down at a cup of soup that had materialized in front of him, then looked back up, but the waiter had already whisked himself away.

Shirley sighed and took up her soup spoon.

Reggie frowned at the array before him, then picked up a teaspoon. "Never did like them round bowls. Hard to get in the mouth, you know?"

Shirley managed a smile.

"Reggie, don't you think you've had enough?"

"Nah. This group didn't start sounding good till after the second one." Reggie eyed the all-female jazz group, wishing that their strapless gowns didn't defy gravity quite so successfully. "How come they're keeping 'em opaque?"

"Those dresses are made of real cloth, Reggie—not polarized plastic."

Reggie shook his head, irritated. " 'S too bad. If y' got it, y' oughta show it." His groggy glance strayed back to Shirley.

"Don't even think about it!"

"Well, maybe the floor show…"

"I don't think I want to wait for it." Shirley stood up with sudden decision. "Reggie, I'm getting sleepy. Let's go."

"Huh? Oh, yeah! Sure!" Reggie brightened.

"Just sleepy," Shirley said firmly.

"Awright, awright," Reggie grumbled, bumping the table as he lurched to his feet. He frowned down at the spot of alcohol spreading over his shirt front. "Well… it'll dry."

Shirley frowned at the upset glass and the rivulet of gin coursing toward the table edge. She picked up a napkin, tossed it on the spill, and turned away.

Then she turned back, fumbling in her handbag. Reggie had bumbled out without leaving a tip.

Reggie grinned, and the car swooped down. Shirley shrieked, and he smirked with satisfaction. Look down her nose at him, would she? Well, she'd find out how great he really was! He might not be much at the dinner table, but he was something else when he got physical. When she saw how great he was behind the wheel, she'd realize how nuclear he must be in bed.

"Look out! You're going to hit that building!"

"Nah. Six to spare, easy."

The aircar swerved aside, missing the eighty-third story of the Empire State Building by two inches, not six.

"Not sleepy any more, are you?" Reggie gloated.

"No, but I'm getting a headache you wouldn't believe! Reggie, please put the car back on computer pilot!"

"That old lady?" Reggie made a rude noise. "You can't stay on comp if you wanna have fun!"

"If I wanted a variable-grav ride, I'd go to Coney Island," Shirley moaned.

"Aw, come on." Reggie nosed down and went into a power dive. "Driving's fun."

Shirley screeched and clawed the upholstery, rigid as an icicle.

"Oh, all right!" Reggie leveled off, pouting.

"Thank Heaven!" Shirley went half-limp. "Reggie, please put me down! Or find me an airsick bag, fast!"

"Hey, no! The upholstery's brand new!"

"I'm not going to have much choice about it," Shirley groaned.

"Oh, all right, all right!" Disgusted, Reggie slowed the car and started a sedate descent. Shirley went the other half limp, breathing in slow, steady gasps. "I… never… want to go… through something like that… again!"

"No chance you will, the way this date is going," Reggie muttered to himself as he watched a police car swoop by overhead. "Wonder what's the matter with him?"

"Oh, just after a drunk driver, probably." Shirley took a deep breath and sat up straight as the car gently grounded. "Are we down yet?"

"We are in contact with the earth's surface," the computer assured her, "or, at least, the pavement over it."

"Good." Shirley lurched up, grabbing the manual door handle and hauling it back.

"Hey! Whatcha doing?" Reggie protested.

"I," Shirley answered, "am getting out."

"Silly dumb broad." Reggie huddled in the corner of the seat, glowering at the instrument display across from him, sipping another martini. The instrument cluster was beginning to seem kind of removed, but that was okay—the alcohol was beginning to lift him from the funk the evening had put him in. "What does she know, anyway?"

"She has had a liberal arts education," the computer replied. "Oh, shut up!" Reggie growled. "Who asked you, anyway?" The computer weighed the command to "Shut up," decided from the context that it was an order to be silent, weighed the order against the direct question that followed it, decided from the context that the question had been rhetorical, and wisely decided to remain silent.

"Doesn't know what a real man is like," Reggie grumbled. "All she knows is those knitting little preppies." He scowled at the memory of what one of those preppies had done to him during a wrestling match, and what another one had done when Reggie took a swing at him. "Cheaters, every one of 'em."

The computer reviewed its data bank of irrational human behavior, concluded that its owner needed to talk in order to relieve emotional stress, and would therefore appreciate leading questions. "They are deficient in a sense of fair play?"

"Boy, you can say that again! Always sneering at you, making fun of you by asking questions about things you don't know nothing about! 'What did you think of that concert last night, Reggie?' 'How'd you like that new drama the Players did, Reggie?' Then talking down to me, only asking me about the league standings and all! Here, give me another drink!"

The autobar door slid open, and Reggie yanked the glass out, spilling as much as he sipped. "Gack! Don't fill 'em so full next time, huh?"

The computer registered the directive in its manual of drinks. "As you wish, sir."

" 'Azh I wish, azh I wish!' When did you do anything I wished?" Reggie snarled.

"I have endeavored in all ways to please…"

"Oh, yeah? Then why'd you preach law at me, huh?"

"I cannot…"

"Always tryin' a takeover when I wanna drive," Reggie growled. "Here, gimme those controls! Let's see some real drivin', here!" He lurched forward into the control seat and slapped the manual switch. " 'N' doncha dare override me!"

The stress level within the computer's program increased as it forecast Reggie's probable action. "Sir, I compute that the alcohol level in your blood is…"

"Don't preach, I said! Here we go!"

With a quarter of its capacity, the computer reviewed the commands Reggie had given, failed to find one that specifically banned preaching, then checked the definition of preaching and concluded that it had not performed that particular action. Another quarter of its capacity monitored Reggie's swerves and swoops, but the remaining half sought to resolve the conflict between its basic programming and Reggie's command not to override his manual controls. It extrapolated the results of his wild driving within the context of the skyscrapers surrounding them and the extreme heaviness of the nighttime pleasure district traffic, and came to an alarming conclusion. "Sir! If you continue in this course, you will eventually collide with a building or another vehicle!"

"Oh, shut up and enjoy the ride," Reggie snarled. "You're as bad as she was."

The computer saw another aircar zooming toward them, filling its receptors' field of view, calculated the vectors of the two vehicles, and concluded that a collision would occur within 5.634 seconds (it rounded off the repeating decimal). It would have warned Reggie, but he had just commanded it to "Shut up." It would have taken control and avoided the collision, but Reggie had expressly forbidden it to override manual control. That created a conflict between two different aspects of its program—the one that demanded it keep its owner safe, and the one that insisted it obey. Of course, it could disobey to save its owner from major injury—but was such an action warranted? It had to consider the matter. After all, it had 5.634 seconds (5.173 now). But to a computer, five seconds is a world of time, so it could afford to ponder.

A human being might have asked, "All right, so what can they do to me?" But that wasn't an important question for an FCC robot brain—it assumed that any damage to itself was inconsequential; it could always be repaired, and it had no pain circuits. What was consequential was whether or not there would be any damage to its owner and, secondarily, whether or not there would be any damage to the passengers of the other aircar. Of tertiary importance was whether there would be any damage to the other aircar itself. The robot concluded that, if it stayed on the intersect course,

A) There would be damage to its owner;

B) There would be damage to the owner(s) of the other aircar; and

C) There would be damage to the other aircar itself.

Also, as a byproduct, there would be damage to the computer's aircar, too. Obviously, therefore, it should take evasive action—it should swerve to miss the other aircar. But its owner had ordered it not to override his override.

The whole problem would be academic if the owner were planning to turn the aircar aside at the last moment; it might be bad practice, but that wasn't for the computer to decide. So the robot said, "You are on an intersect course with another aircraft. Do you wish to swerve…"

"Oh, shut up."

The computer silenced itself, reconsidered the situation, and concluded that it should, at least, override the command to "Shut up."

"Do you plan to turn aside before you collide with the other aircar?"

"Of course," Reggie snorted. "What do you think I am, an idiot?"

"No," the robot answered, quite truthfully. It was aware that Reggie's intelligence fell within normal IQ parameters, so that he could not technically be categorized as an "idiot."

The collision would occur in 2.98 seconds. The robot noted that the oncoming aircar had begun to turn aside, but computed that it could not by itself veer away enough to avoid the impact. Reggie's aircar would have to swerve, too. But, since Reggie had stated his intention to swerve aside at the last moment, and had further forbidden the robot to override him When he had taken manual control, it could do nothing.

But it knew Reggie's reaction time when he was sober, and could subtract a loss of reaction time proportional to the amount of alcohol he had ingested. It concluded that his body couldn't execute his brain's commands in less than 1.23 seconds, and that if there was no sign of swerving by that time, it should take control. Accordingly, it counted down the nanoseconds, waiting.

At 1.34 seconds, Reggie shouted, "Now!"

At .09 seconds, the aircar started to turn.

At .08 seconds, the computer noted that Reggie had not turned sharply enough, and computed that there would be at least a partial collision. So it finally overrode Reggie's manual control—but only to the extent of increasing the thrust in the direction in which he had turned the wheel, by boosting it drastically.

The aircar roared aside at the last split of the second, shooting just beyond the point of impact…

Almost.

"Almost" is a large brass gong, surrounding you, filling all of space and time with an enduring, sonorous tone. "Almost" is the sum of the kinetic energy of two bodies, impacting along nearly parallel vectors. "Almost" is a body slamming into shock webbing, and two other bodies slamming into shock webbing. "Almost" is the grating crash of an aircar against a plasticrete surface, the crunch as it rebounds off a lower surface, and the sickening, accelerating whine of a disconnected turbine, no longer fully engaged with its anti-gravity unit, but increasing its power as much as it can to soften the crash, soften it almost enough to prevent major damage. "Almost" is a groggy driver scared sober, shaking his head, staring about him wild-eyed, heart racing in panic, gasping, "Wha… wha' happen… wha…"

The other aircar lurched by overhead, saved from collision with the stone of the building by the nanosecond reflexes of its computer. It settled to the ground nearby with considerable cosmetic damage, none of it major. The passenger leaped out, dashing over to Reggie's aircar and yanked the door open, crying, "Are you all right, man? Are you all right?"

Reggie blinked, turned an owlish stare on the other man, and suddenly realized that he might be in some way to blame. So he scowled, summoned his last vestige of belligerence, and snarled, "Who taught you how to drive?"

Then he passed out.

"And thou?" Cordelia asked, eyes wide with the realization of tragedy. "Didst thou, too, lose awareness?"

"I did not," Fess replied. "I am, after all, a robot, and will not lose awareness unless I sustain sufficient damage to incapacitate me."

"Yet thou wast damaged by the accident," Gregory inferred.

"I was," Fess agreed. "Before the collision, all my circuits had been in perfect operating condition—but afterward, I was removed from the wreckage, subjected to tests, and found to have a severely weakened capacitor."

" 'Tis that which doth cause thy seizures, is't not?" Geoffrey asked, wide-eyed.

"It is," Fess confirmed. "That collision was the last decision in which I was successfully able to consider a multiplicity of factors under a severe time limit. Since then, any such situation overloads the weakened capacitor and causes it to discharge. Realizing this, the robot technician built in a circuit breaker and an absorbing pad that allows the component to discharge in isolation."

Magnus frowned. "An they had not, it would have burned out others of thy components, would it not?"

"It would have," Fess agreed. "Fortunately, they anticipated the situation, and there has been no further damage."

"And what of the harm to the aircar?" Gregory asked.

"It was total," Fess answered. "I had delayed taking action too long."

"Thou hadst little choice," Magnus said, with disdain.

"On the contrary, my makers decided that I had had a great deal of latitude, but had not been able to comprehend that, within the context of the situation, I should have ignored my owner's order not to override manual control. Such a discrimination circuit was built into all later FCC robots."

"That did not aid thee greatly," said Geoffrey.

"Certes, they did have a sufficiency of cold blood!" Cordelia shuddered. "I wonder that they did not break and bury thee, sin that they were so heartless."

"Well they might have," Fess agreed, "the more so since they determined that the cost of repairing me would be too great, for they could not simply replace the capacitor, but would have had to replace the whole molecular circuit with micromanipulators, and a high probability of totally destroying my central processing unit. Certainly the operation would have cost far more than anything my owner could have gained by selling me."

"Then what did he do," asked Geoffrey, frowning, "sin that 'twas his fault entire?"

"There surely must have been some fault of mine, Geoffrey."

"Wherein?" the boy challenged. "Thou hast but now said that later robots had the discrimination thou didst lack, to enable thee to prevent it!"

"Thou dost speak without logic, Fess," Gregory agreed. "Still, I can see 'tis in accord with the program thou hast told us of."

Geoffrey looked up, nettled. "How canst thou know that, wart?"

But Magnus waved him to silence, eyes on Fess. "Then what did thine owner do with thee?"

"He never wished to see me again," Fess sighed.

"Aye," said Cordelia, "sin that 'twas thou hadst witnessed his embarrassment."

" 'Witnessed' is accurate," Fess acknowledged. "My trip log was transcribed and read out in open court to convict him of drunken driving, as a result of which, his license was suspended."

" 'License'?" Geoffrey stared. "Dost thou mean he could not drive without leave?"

"It is not allowed," Fess agreed. "There is too much chance of a driver injuring others."

"Witness the tale he hath but now told us," Magnus said scornfully. "Canst thou not hang one thought to another?"

Geoffrey reddened, but before he could say anything, Cordelia said, "He could not drive, then?"

"He could not," Fess confirmed, "and therefore had no need of a private aircar. Accordingly, he sold what was left of it—my self and circuits—to the highest bidder."

"And who was that?"

"A salvage company," Fess sighed, "which specialized in supplying replacement components at the lowest possible cost."

"Thou must needs have been a great find for them," Cordelia said quickly.

"It is good of you to seek to spare my feelings, Cordelia—but please be mindful that I have none."

The girl looked skeptical, but held her peace.

"I was junk," Fess said baldly, "and was treated as such. Certainly the matter should not occasion shame for me, when it is five hundred years in the past! Still, Cordelia is right—I was a great find for a salvage company, a most excellent piece of junk."

"Yet wast thou not distressed to find thyself sold for scrap?" Geoffrey blurted. Cordelia glared daggers at him, but Fess answered, "I cannot honestly say that I was, especially since it freed me from Reggie. The degree of reluctance his commands produced within my circuits, by opposing two separate aspects of my program, was quite disagreeable."

"But thou wast devalued, thou wast debased!"

"There is some degree of accuracy in that statement," Fess admitted. "Still, looking back on the incident from five hundred years' perspective, I cannot help but feel that gaining my freedom from Reggie was cheap at the price."