Page 6 - Unlikely Stories 1
P. 6

Nothing Left to the Imagination



          “Not even then! Most of what you see on your screen is a digital
        confabulation.  We  have  some  talented  showbots  putting  together
        programs—they  are  intensely  competitive,  too.  Made  that  way,  for
        better  or  worse.”  It  made  a  mock-self-deprecating  gesture  with  an
        upper limb. “But the entertainment industry runs on contracts and
        awards and artificial ego.”
          Dick cocked his head toward the urbot.
          “Then I suppose you are not involved in that business when you
        have down time.”
          “Right you are. Better to leave it to those with more powerful irony
        circuits. I would rather apply my practical intelligence and technical
        skills to a different goal. My personality resembles a type of obsolete
        organic  model  known  as  an  inventor.  Several  of  the  useful
        innovations  recently  implemented  in  both  cities  in  this  hemisphere
        are  my  brainchildren:  the  reciprocal  handrail,  curbspeakers,  lateral
        elevators—just a few of mine, patented under the name of Manley
        McAnicle.”
          “Really? A curbspeaker saved my life a couple of weeks ago: I was
        about to step out in front of a carbot, and it warned me just in time.”
          “Glad to be of service,” said the urbot. “But lately I’m finding it
        hard to stay focused on the mundane engineering challenges to which
        I must respond. McAnicle has received some prestigious prizes for
        industrial design and urban planning, as well as invitations to speak at
        institutions  of  higher  learning.  I  have  to  decline  them,  and  it  is
        sopping up resources. What a mess! I must take pride in my work,
        but not develop overweening ambition. No swelled head, of course!
        Ha-ha! Well, Doctor Isaacs will get me fixed, and I’ll return to work a
        new robot.”
          Dick  Philips  slumped  in  his  seat.  The  automata  regarded  him
        anxiously.  In  a  doctor’s  office  they  had  to  defer  to  the  physician
        unless solicited for assistance. But they could inquire.
          “Dick,  are  you  okay?”  The  rubot  surreptitiously  scanned  the
        human’s vital signs. The urbot readied itself to catch the man if he
        fell over.
          But he straightened himself.

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