I skipped the letters to the sports page, which were generally rancorous, and allowed myself the guilty pleasure of skipping the arts page. I knew that I really should stay in better touch with the arts—after all they were just about the only arena left in the world in which Americans really functioned as Americans—but I found it harder and harder to tolerate it every year. Almost all of what everyone was doing seemed to be nothing but rehashes of things done with far more energy and nuance a century before.
I glanced at the clock. I still had some time to spare, but on the other hand there was not much to do here. And after so long in the slip the Skyjump really should have a more thorough checkout. I made sure everything in the kitchen was off, put on my sport coat, carried my luggage out, locked the front door, and strolled down the driveway.
I had an odd thought: why did I have a driveway? I had no car, nor did anyone I knew. There were perhaps a hundred cars among all the expats in all of Auckland, all of them ceremonial in one sense or another. Only the government, the very largest businesses, and a few of the hereditary wealthy would have them. Why did everyone have a driveway? Of course everyone would have told me that it had been an American folk custom, and part of our identity, but after all, when the Occupation began, only about one in three American households had a car. Was it, perhaps, that only the armed forces overseas, plus the financially well-off, had been able to escape, and the well-off had owned the cars?
It gave me something to think over while I waited for the cab, my suitcase beside me on the curb. Not that I needed much diversion; the bright, perfect fall day was really more than enough all by itself.
The cab turned up a couple of minutes later. Three doors down it was ambushed by a crowd of neighborhood children, who saw a chance for the delightful old game of torment-the-cab. Since the cab wasn’t allowed to move with any object at body temperature in front of it, they could stop the cab by jumping in front of it, and then pin it down indefinitely by forming a circle of linked hands around it. I sighed, picked up my suitcase, and started walking toward the cab.
As I got closer I could hear it pleading to be let alone, and threatening to record all their pictures as they darted in and out and wrote dirty words on it. The poor things are programmed for such complete courtesy that it could only phrase it as “Now, please, if you don’t mind, I shall have to take your picture and give it to the cab company if you write bad words on me, which I really wish you would not do, please, and have a pleasant day.”
When I got close enough the kids scattered—it was a game I had played often enough as a child, and I was still in no hurry, so I wasn’t particularly angry. I just wanted my cab and was annoyed at having to walk forty yards or so to get it.
“Are you Mr. Lyle Peripart, sir, and if you are, sir, shall I take you to your jump boat, sir?” the cab asked plaintively, as I approached ii.
“Yes and yes,” I said. “Two bags to load into your boot.”
The cab popped its boot open and asked, “Shall I deploy my rear lift, sir?”
“Not needed,” I said, and swung my computer and my small suitcase in.
“Sir,” the car added, “your house informs me that you may have left the thermostat set to a warmer temperature than is needed while you are away, sir. Sir, your marina has confirmed that you won’t be bringing back your jump boat until Sunday noon, sir. Sir, would it be possible, sir, for the house to set the thermostat lower, and thereby conserve your fuel bill and our nation’s fuel, sir?”
I got into the open passenger side door and said, “Aw, sure, turn it down. Is there anything else the house would like before I go?”
“Sir, no, sir, except that your house wishes you to have a safe trip, sir.”
“The house is kind. It has a very thoughtful and courteous attitude and its thoroughness is appreciated.” The cab, of course, would relay this to the house, and that was important. Strangely enough, fully thirty years after automated houses, there were still people who didn’t speak kindly to theirs or give them any compliments—and those people lived in cold, drafty, neglectful, apathetic homes. That was senseless when it was so easy to have a pleasant home—a little courtesy and kindness, a few congratulations for a job well done, and the house would learn so much faster and begin to cast about for ways to please you more.
The cab slid the door shut silently beside me, and asked, “Sir, are you comfortable, sir? Sir, will it be all right for me to start moving, sir?”
“Yes and yes,” I said. The cab pulled away from the curb and accelerated smoothly down the block toward the big intersection. Now that there was a passenger, the kids wouldn’t bother it; cabs, like all robots, were inhibited from harming a human being, but passengers weren’t.
“Sir,” the cab said, “the Red Stripe Taxicab Company has instructed me to proffer its apology for my being late, sir.”
“Quite all right,” I said. “I saw that you were attacked. I chased the children away myself. You’re not to blame for a bit of it. They were very rude and cruel to you, and they shouldn’t have done that.”
“Sir, little children are the most precious things there are, sir,” the cab said primly. “Sir, it is the job of everyone, human beings and machines alike, to guard them and keep them safe, sir. Sir, it was an honor to be there and to help in keeping them safe, sir. Sir, all children are very good, and there is never any ground for criticizing the child of any human being, sir.”
I would have liked to think that I detected even the least trace of sarcasm in the voice of that poor persecuted cab, but I knew perfectly well that whatever its real feelings might be—and to be bright enough to handle the cab, there had to be a freethinking part to the brain—all that it would be allowed to speak would be company policy, as set by the Public Relations department. Furthermore, no good could come of saying anything subversive to it; if I encouraged it to think what any thinking being would think, I would merely hasten the day when the contradiction between its thoughts and its required texts pushed it over the edge into madness. Irritating as it was, therefore, it was best to reinforce the poor thing’s accordance with policy. “There is much to what you have said,” I said, “and I will think on it; thinking about it will bring me pleasure. You are a good cab to feel that way.”
“Sir thank you very much sir.”
“And for purposes of your company record,” I added, “let me state that you were in fact surrounded and abused by a crowd of human children, for whom you showed exemplary patience, forbearance, and affection.”
“Sir, thank you, sir,” the cab said, real pleasure in its voice now. My reinforcement was something it was programmed to enjoy, of course, but this also would mean a commendation from the company to add to the array of medals on its dashboard, and cabs were programmed to be ridiculously sensitive to such things.
They also have enough free will to deliberately seek that which is pleasing; the cab immediately found a route that was about forty-five seconds faster and featured considerably better scenery. I thanked and congratulated it again, and I could almost feel it purr like an overgrown cat. Probably it would be right as rain again, psychologically, just as soon as the children’s artwork (the large black FUCK, the red SHELLI IS A HOAR, and the silver CUNT HOLE) got washed off. The robots are blessed with editable memories; it would be able to retain all the positive reinforcement it had gotten and completely forget all the pain.