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shapes.
Derec didn t even get out of his chair. He simply kicked off his shoes,
loosened his tunic buttons, and stretched out full-length on the bunk.
G night, Dad, he mumbled. The lights in the cabin dimmed down,
and within a few minutes Derec s breathing had shifted into the
steady rhythm of sleep.
Dr. Avery watched his son until even the phosphorescent glow of the
terminal displays had faded to pitch blackness. Then he kicked off his
own shoes, removed his lab coat, and stretched out on his bunk.
Nighty-night, Davey, he whispered.
CHAPTER 13
JANET
A cool spring morning in Robot City. The black limousine rolled
swiftly through the empty streets, nearly silent save for the soft
thrumming of its electric motor and the gentle hiss of rubberoid tires
on pavement. Inside the vehicle, Janet Anastasi sat in the passenger
compartment, her nose buried in a sheaf of fax pages, while Basalom
sat in the chauffeur s compartment, jacked into the vehicle s master
control panel, driving.
One of the advantages of being a robot with telesensory feeds was that
Basalom could rotate his head 180 degrees and still keep an eye on the
road. Confident that the vehicle was safely under control, Basalom
swiveled around to look at Dr. Anastasi. He allocated every third
nanosecond to introspection.
She certainly seems happier now that she s stopped sleeping in the
lander and has taken an apartment in the city. Briefly switching to
thermographic vision, he felt a small glow of satisfaction in the part of
his brain that Dr. Anastasi had taken to calling his mother hen
circuit. Dr. Anastasi s heat contours were a calm, relaxed study in
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blues and greens. There were no indicators of unpredictable
endocrine activity, no hints of dangerous blood pressure or cardiac
rate changes. And it s been 52 hours since her last emotional
outburst, Basalom noted with some pride. Yes, she s definitely
happier now that she s adapting to the city.
Sure, mac, the limousine interjected, give the lady all the credit. Why
don cha ever notice how the city is adapting to her?
Will you kindly keep out of my private thoughts? Basalom asked, not
for the first time.
Can t help it, Mac, the car answered. You go around jacking your main
data bus into other folk s sensory feeds, your thought stream s gonna
become a party line.
Still, you could have the decency to pretend that you aren t listening.
Yeah, I could, the car said. And on the other tire, if it bugs you that
much, you could go back to letting me drive. After all, I am Personal
Vehicle One.
You are a pile of steel and plastic with the simulated personality of a
twentieth-century Chicago cabbie, Basalom corrected archly, and I
will no longer tolerate your verbal abuse of Dr. Anastasi.
Suit yourself, Mac. I get recharged no matter who s driving. The car s
positronic brain went back into idle mode, and Basalom once more
resumed the task of trying to create a private security partition in his
brain.
Erecting an encrypted buffer without verbally thinking about how he
was doing it was a ticklish job, though. When he thought that he d
succeeded, he moved the stack of pointers that represented his
consciousness into the secured partition and initiated a new thought
stream. What in the name of Wendell Avery were the supervisors
thinking of when they decided to create this mass of argumentative
positrons, anyhow?
They were thinking of what Dr. Anastasi said in Tunnel Station # I 7,
Personal Vehicle One answered, as clearly as ever. As she was
returning via tunnel to the spaceport after her first meeting with
Central, she said-and I quote: Frost, Basalom, look at what the air
blast has done to my hair. Why can t they have some decent
groundcars in this city? She had but to speak, and voila! I was
created.
Basalom gave up in defeat. Yes, you certainly were. But tell me,
whatever possessed them to decide to give you a simulated
personality ?
A slight drop in voltage on pin 16-the positronic equivalent of a shrug-
came through the data bus. Dunno. Humans are rare here, all right?
Guess they thought the doc might be happier with a little simulated
companionship.
Well, Basalom said out loud, they got that wrong.
In the back seat, Dr. Anastasi peered over the top edge of the papers
she was reading. Did you say something to me, Basalom?
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No, madam. I was exchanging information with the vehicle s
onboard computer.
Oh. Very well. She looked back to the papers and then glanced out
the side window. . Basalom? How much longer til we get to the
Compass Tower?
Basalom called up an internal image of the city map, plotted their
present position, and factored in the rate at which they were
traveling. ,. Approximately five minutes and twenty-three seconds,
madam.
I know a shortcut, Personal Vehicle One broke in on the data bus.
I have had enough of your shortcuts, Basalom answered.
But this one s really simple, the car protested. All you gotta do is turn
east at the gasket factory
The Compass Tower is to our south and west, Basalom pointed out.
Trust me. Hang a left at the gasket factory, go two blocks over, then up
the freight ramp and catch the #204 southbound slidewalk
You want me to drive on the slidewalk? Basalom s shock was
expressed as a sudden surge in amplitude on bus circuits 24 and 57.
Ow! Not so loud! Yeah, you drive on the slidewalk. There s a bend to
the west in about two kilometers; you get on here and it s a nonstop
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