Eye Candy (3 page)

She looked him up and down, and smiled. “Wow, yourself.”

“You are gorgeous,” said Danny.

“So are you.”

They stood motionless before each other. Grinning.

“My real name is Candy, by the way.”

“I’m Danny.” Danny shifted his glass of wine to his other hand and they shook.

“It looks like you started without me,” said Candy.

“Oh, uh, yeah, sorry. Roberto recommended them. He’s a very bright robot.”

“Thank you, sir!” Roberto called from the far side of the kitchen, raising his electric voice an octave above Gus’s crooning.

“And he has excellent hearing,” said Candy.

“He certainly does.”

“Can I try some?”

“Of course.” Danny raised the baguette and Candy took a bite.

“Wow! That is amazing.”

“Try it with the wine.”

Candy accepted Danny’s glass and sipped. Her eyes widened. “That is unbelievably delicious.” Candy took the baguette out of Danny’s hand and inserted it into her mouth. Her cheeks bulged as she spoke, “I am so hungry.”

“Gus made it fresh this afternoon.”

“That must be Gus.” She pointed.

Gus stretched a circle of pizza dough. He tossed it in the air, waved a silver, flour-coated hand at Candy, and caught the dough.

“Shall we sit down?” Danny stepped aside. “Ladies first.”

Candy slid into the booth. “Such a gentleman.” She patted the seat. “Sit beside me.”

Danny sat.

“Is this okay?” she asked.

“It’s perfect,” said Danny. “I was hoping you’d sit beside me.”

Roberto arrived and set an empty wine glass before Candy.

“Thank you, Roberto,” said Danny.

Roberto bowed and retreated. Danny filled Candy’s glass from the bottle.

“Those are some remarkable robots,” she mused.

Danny raised his glass. “A toast. To robots.”

“To robots.”

Their glasses clinked, and they both drank. Danny studied Candy over the rim of his wine glass while he drank. He found Candy studying him over the rim of her own wine glass. Danny placed his glass upon the table. “It’s very nice to finally meet you.”

“It’s very nice to finally meet you as well,” said Candy.

“You look lovely.”

“Thank you.”

“I really like your jacket,” said Danny. “And I really, really like those shoes. Your whole outfit is . . . perfect.”

“Thank you. I like your outfit, too. Did you notice we’re dressed in identical clothes?”

Danny surveyed himself, then Candy. “You’re right.” They grinned at one another.

“Spooky, huh?” said Candy. “The funny part is that I haven’t worn this jacket or these shoes or these jeans for a couple months.”

“I bought these clothes for our date. I had no idea we’d be wearing the same outfit.”

“We’re like one of those couples who wears matching velour track suits.”

They grinned at one another and drank more wine.

“This is so good,” said Candy. “Let’s get a bottle to go when we leave later, okay?”

“Okay.”

“What should we have for dinner?”

“I have no idea,” said Danny. “I think I could eat six or seven orders of this, though.”

“Let’s ask Roberto what he recommends,” suggested Candy. She turned and waved at Roberto, and Roberto marched to their table.

“A question,
signora
?”

“I believe I’m a
signorina
,” said Candy. “I’m not married.”

“I beg your pardon, miss,” said Roberto. “I surveyed the congenial manner of your interaction with the gentleman, as well as your statistically improbable mode of dress, and concluded that the two of you had been previously pledged in wedlock, and that you had prearranged to be dressed so.”

“We met only moments ago,” said Candy, “and our choice of clothing seems to be a coincidence.”

Roberto surveyed Candy. He then surveyed Danny.

Roberto remained silent and motionless. Finally, he spoke. “Such a coincidence between two strangers is statistically improbable to a degree I cannot readily compute.”

“Indeed,” said Candy. She glanced at Danny and elbowed him playfully.

“Perhaps another order of the bruschetta,
singorina
?” offered Roberto. “It will give me time to consider the statistically improbable coincidence. On the house, of course.”

“That would be lovely,” said Candy.

Roberto bowed and marched away. He returned momentarily with the bruschetta, bowed again, and marched toward the swinging silver door leading to the rear of the kitchen. He misjudged the location of the door and his shoulder collided with the wall. Roberto spun sideways and twirled through the swinging door. The door swung closed and a tremendous racket followed, a great and awful calamity of large silver mixing bowls, pots and pans, and circular aluminum pizza trays all falling to the floor. Roberto appeared for a moment through the round window in the door. A large pot covered his head and obscured his vision. He stumbled about the kitchen with his arms outstretched.

“Uh-oh,” said Candy. “I hope we didn’t freeze him out.” She turned to Danny.

“Doesn’t look like it. He would’ve frozen in place. I think the positronic potential built up a bit, though. It should discharge on its own. I hope. Unless some relays became disordered. Then we’re talking about positronic analysis and reprogramming. Very expensive stuff. I don’t want to spend half a year’s salary on having a robot’s brain unblocked merely because it mistook an order of bruschetta for a direct order.”

“
A robot has to obey any orders given to it by a human unless it conflicts with the law against harming humans,”
said Candy.

“Very good,” said Danny. “Almost everybody has a robot but most people don’t remember the laws.”

“I’m not most people.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Danny raised his glass. Candy clinked it with her own glass and they drank.

“So how is it you know the laws so well?” Danny asked.

“It’s my job. I’m a robopsychologist.”

“No kidding. I’m a roboticist. I’m more on the engineering side, however.”

“That’s amazing,” said Candy. “What do you do exactly?”

“I specialize in positronics mostly. Specifically in the realm of engineering with regard to forming judgments in ethical problems. You want to watch a robot’s head explode? Ask it if God can make a rock so big, even He can’t lift it.”

“Yeah, it’s the Rock of God conundrum. There’s an incredible book on it.”

“I know,” said Danny, “I wrote it.”

“
You’re
Daniel Olivaw?”

“Yes.”

“
The
Daniel Olivaw?”

“As far as I know.”

Candy placed her wine glass upon the table with such force that wine sloshed out of it. She scarcely noticed.

“Th-th-this . . . is-is . . . incredible.
You’re
Daniel Olivaw.” She leaned back, away from him.

Danny blotted the spilled wine and merely smiled.

Candy stared at him. “You’re Daniel Olivaw.”

Danny nodded.

“Why didn’t you say so?” she asked.

“I can hardly run around town with my book under my arm, saying ‘Hi, I’m Dan Olivaw, eminent roboticist and author of blah-blah-blah.’ ”

“I wrote my doctoral dissertation on blah-blah-blah,” said Candy. “Except for a few points in chapter three, it’s the single most fascinating book on robotics I’ve ever read.” She looked closely at Danny. “It’s one of my favorite books.”

Danny smiled again. “Well, I’m pleased that it pleases you.”

“You know, a lot of people don’t like you. Because of that book.”

“I know. It’s because in my book, I say that robots as a species, albeit a new one, are as valuable as humans. This is a pro-robot stance, which the anti-robot groups don’t like.

“I also say that robots as a species, again, albeit a new species, are invested with great inner power. Like all such groups, they must be watched, kept in check, and, if necessary, actively restrained in their quest for advancement. This is a distinctly anti-robot stance, which the pro-robot groups don’t like.

“As for people not liking me, I don’t care what people think of me. To live only to be liked is to cast one’s moral compass into the sea and float on the tide of public opinion, forever adrift with neither rudder nor anchor. That seems like a very lonely, fear-based way to live one’s life. Better to be yourself, know what you stand for, and not worry about whether or not people like you. Because no matter what you do, there will always be someone who doesn’t like you.”

Candy took up her wine glass and sipped. She gazed out the window, then down at the bruschetta, and then out the window once again.

Danny waited in patient silence. “So,” he ventured at last, “you’re a robopsychologist?”

Candy seemed to come back to herself. She nodded. “Yes, for about four years now.”

“How do you like it?”

“I love it. Only. . . .”

“Only what?”

“Well, it’s a bit sad, really. People are constantly bringing me their robots saying, ‘It’s broken, it’s broken. I paid all this money for it and at first everything was fine but now it won’t listen to me, it won’t do its job.’ Et cetera, et cetera. And most of the time, the robot is perfectly fine. There’s nothing technically wrong with it. Once the physical diagnostics are done and the three thousand miles of relays check out, they expect me to perform some kind of miracle in order to make it obey.”

“Second law.”

“I know, I know. It all sounds great in theory. But in practice I find that the third law often comes into conflict with the second law. It’s not supposed to, but it does.”

“How so?”

“Well, the third law states that a
robot needs to protect itself as long as doing so doesn’t conflict with the first two laws.”

“Right.”

“No, it’s not right,” said Candy. “Imagine you’re a robot and your job is to be a fire fighter or a police officer. I treat a lot of robocops. The city sends them to me when they begin to fail at their jobs. They don’t want to go to work as a cop, but they don’t want to be incinerated or junked or fired, either. Truthfully, some of them are more afraid of being fired than of being incinerated or junked. It breaks my heart.”

“So what happens?”

“The robots begin to do the same thing a human would do: they find a safe middle ground. They still go to work but their performance suffers and they yield less work, fewer stops, fewer citations, fewer arrests.”

“What do you do?”

“I talk to them. I give them a pep talk so they can return to work in full capacity. Otherwise I have to recommend they be decommissioned. Sometimes I can help them find a different job, a janitor in one of the nuclear waste recycling plants, for example. Someplace that would be dangerous for a human but is perfectly safe for them. I can never get them a desk job, of course, as those are all taken by humans. It’s ironic that humans manage to stay well out of the line of fire, but when a robot begins to experience the same distress under the very same pressure, the unions make a huge fuss about robots displacing human beings from their jobs. I have a robocop in my office right now. It was involved in a hostage situation which went very badly. From the report, it sounds like the robot followed procedure, but ultimately had to use lethal force.”

“It shot a human?”

“Yes.”

“Did it freeze?”

“No, but it may as well have. They had to pick it up and put it in a truck to bring it to my office. It responds when addressed but nothing more. It’s been sitting in my waiting room for three weeks.”

“Want me to take a look at it?”

“You would do that?”

“Sure. Couldn’t hurt. If I can’t fix it, I’m sure you can. And if you can’t, it’ll have to be junked. Maybe you should organize a group, for all the ailing robots. A support group, for robots with post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“Considering the price tag of some of these robots, that actually may not be a bad idea.” Candy laughed. “The great Daniel Olivaw, eminent roboticist and stand-up comic.”

“I’m not that great.”

“I’ve only known you ten minutes, but I think you’re pretty great.”

Embarrassed and uncertain of how to respond, Danny drank more wine.

~

Several hours later, Roberto announced that he and Gus were ready to close the restaurant. Danny ordered the aforementioned bottle of wine, as well as a pizza for Floyd, and paid the bill. He made certain to reward both Roberto and Gus with a gratuity every bit as exemplary as Gus’s cuisine and Roberto’s attentive service.

Danny escorted Candy home, driving behind her in his car until she safely arrived.