“You’re wasting your time and mine. This is my work, and I’ll keep at it even if it doesn’t pay me a dime. At this point, I don’t need the money.” That was almost true; with a certain degree of penny pinching, I could’ve retired at that minute thanks to my bloated monthly salary.
Still, that bombshell failed to dent him. “Again, I advise you to study the brief. You will find that it is not merely your future earnings you may need to protect. I’ll expect to hear from you very soon.”
He wheeled around with the stately grace of a galleon, and I’m sure would’ve made an impressive exit if Deal hadn’t hopped forward and wrapped the end of one of her limbs around his upper arm.
“Hold up a sec, podner,” Deal clicked, the translation coming out in the exaggerated cowboy twang she’d abandoned yesterday.
Penwarden made a few sincere efforts to pull away before he gave up. He stared close-range at Deal, his face now suffused with an unattractive shade of red. “Release me immediately, Trader, or suffer serious legal consequences.” I had to hand it to the man: he looked a mere 30 percent scared and 70 percent pissed. In his shoes, I would’ve hit 90 percent on the fear meter and rising. Of course, I happened to be one of the few humans who knew just how lethal Tsf could be.
Deal was immune to the lawyer’s glare. “I reckon you can fergit that shet. I’m what they call a dip-la-mat in these here parts and got am-munities. But I just gotta check on if I was hear’n you right. Was you figgerin’ to get yer mitts into the doc’s well-earned nest egg?”
Penwarden was one tough cookie, but the steel in his eyes was rusting fast. “That depends on how reasonable Doctor Morganson can be. I’m sure we can work something out. Let me go. Please.”
Deal relinquished the man’s arm and Penwarden immediately scooted to the clinic’s exit. The cops became the second line of geese following their migrating leader. At the door, I thought the lawyer might turn and deliver some new legal threat, but he was gone before his small flock had caught up.
“This,” I said, shaking the document in my hand, “I don’t need. Are any of your people lawyers?” I asked Deal.
“We have not evolved past an occasional necessity for arbitration, Doctor.” The sagebrush twang had gone. “But our arbitrators do not use our legal system as a bludgeon.”
How nice for you, I thought, walking over to the reception desk. “L, would you mind tucking these papers away for now?”
L extended a pseudo-hand, took the brief, opened a desk drawer with another temporary hand, and put the vile thing out of sight. “The myrmidons,” he complained, “continue to be rude, and that barrister…” he paused to give me time to admire the latest addition to his vocabulary, “behaved no better. Not one of them spoke to me even though I invited conversation most politely!”
“That is strange,” I commiserated.
Deal reclaimed my attention by gently tapping my shoulder. “After you departed yesterday,” she said, “I essayed a few more experiments with the robot.”
Had she figured it out? “What kind of experiments?”
“I tried constructing it from the middle of the instructions rather than what we assumed was the beginning, and in many other sequences. My results were even less successful than all previous efforts. When fully reassembled, the machine failed to intone your name even once. If the Hoouk sent us this item as an intelligence test, I must tilt my gondola in disgrace.”
I tried to reclaim the excitement that came with last night’s breakthrough, but the day had killed my mood. I had so much on my mind: the pending lawsuit with attending hassles and fees, a possible bomb attack on my loved ones, and Gara still attached to my feet at the heels and matching my every step. Shake it off, Al, I told myself, remember what you tell your patients. Do you want your anxieties to run your life, or you?
“I may know how to fix the robot.” Perhaps not the most tactful way to put it after Deal’s IQ self-evaluation.
The Trader made a popcorn popper’s worth of clicks, which the translator simplified to a single, astonished “What?”
The humor of this worked its way though my funk. “You’re going to kick yourself when I tell you. Or should I say punch yourself?” I suppose Tsf limbs could swing either way.
“I am eager to proceed with this proposed auto-mutilation. Please instruct me immediately!”
I smiled and meant it. “If you wouldn’t mind, could we have another joint session with Cora first? Then we’ll have the whole day free.”
“Certainly. This will provide a chance for me to cultivate patience, a sadly undernourished animal in my emotional farm.”
After our time with Cora, a note-for-note repeat of yesterday’s initially promising and then disappointing performance, Deal led the way to the robot at a pace that made me trot to keep up. I wasn’t in any such rush. In fact, I was feeling a distinct reluctance for my theory to be tested.
Back in Frankenstein’s Cyberlab, machine parts lay cleverly organized all over the floor. Fine. We needed to start from scratch.
“Would you care to reveal your idea now?” Deal asked.
“Not yet. I’m trying to build suspense.”
“Humans can be surprisingly cruel. What is our next step?”
“Reassembly for the umpteenth time. Exactly the way you first did it.”
Deal aimed a platoon of eye-cilia toward me. “And you expect a different result?”
“We’ll see. Put it together as fast as you like.”
Practice, plus not having to wait for me to follow the action, allowed the Trader to work with such blistering speed that the robot almost seemed to implode into existence.
“And now?” Deal asked when she was finished and the robot had said my name three times.
“Now look at the instructions again. What do you see at the center?”
She regarded the sheet for a time. “No more than what stands before us.”
“Really? What’s that next to the robot?”
“Nothing significant. Only the empty boxes.”
“The stacked empty boxes.”
Deal neither moved nor clicked for so long that I wondered if she was hunting for a tactful way of informing me that my idea had already proved worthless. But even a psychiatrist can’t read facial expressions on someone without a face. Maybe an expert on sea anemones would’ve had better luck.
“So maybe the crates are external DM components of some kind,” I explained unnecessarily. “And they need to be in contact to work. An obvious notion, I guess.”
“It is obvious now. We Traders perceive incalculable potential in developing a relationship with the Hoouk and have grasped this overture by them with all limbs. So I find it maddening that so many Tsf scientists have scrutinized these instructions and overlooked the possibility you’ve suggested. Could I offer the excuse that the filled boxes were unwieldy in normal gravity and thus it seemed reasonable to leave each on the floor? No, even I find that unconvincing. Doctor, you are either a being of singular intellect or we Traders are more mentally limited than I had envisioned.”
I shook my head. “Thanks for the praise, I think. But let’s not pat me on the back quite yet.”
“Experimental verification! Easily done.” Before she’d even finished her sentence, Deal had put the boxes into a neat vertical pile.
The effect was dramatic, and by God, totally unexpected. The robot just stood there as always, but color-shifting neon streaks danced across its torso and it emitted a hive-buzzing like a gigantic step-up transformer. And those changes were trivial compared to what happened to the boxes. They spun around individually to differing orientations and then merged like hot wax into a single translucent body that glittered from within. Its final overall shape reminded me of my Hoouk patient on the Parent Ship. Only this thing was three times larger, fully inflated, and seemed to crackle with power.