Good King Sauerkraut (7 page)

Shut up, King
, Dennis's look said. “How about it, Gregory?”

Gregory smiled only with his mouth. “Lunch, by all means. And of course we'll find a way to work together, that goes without saying. But I can't help but wonder whether King has taken into consideration all the responsibilities that go with running a project as big as this one evidently is—not only the kinds of responsibilities but the sheer number of them as well.”

“Tell him at lunch,” Dennis urged. “Right now, we'd better unpack. How many bedrooms does this place have?”

The apartment had six bedrooms, but one of them had been turned into an office; it held a conference table, a supply cabinet, and three computer terminals. Of the remaining five bedrooms, only two had attached baths; Mimi and Gregory had taken those.

“So we have to go down to the end of the hall to pee,” Dennis said, still grousing about not being quartered in MechoTech's impress-the-hell-out-of-'em condo. “We might as well be in a boarding house.”

“The bathroom—which end of the hall?” King asked.

“Ah, there seems to be one at each end. At least we don't have to share. But we don't even have computers in our rooms! Just those three in the office. And look at this.” He went into the bedroom he'd chosen and picked up a bright red Japanese-made mini-television, complete with antenna and four-inch screen. “They really outdid themselves, didn't they? Not even cable TV. Shit.”

“There's cable in the living room.”

“Oh wow, aren't we the lucky ones. I'll bet you anything you like that the guys from the Defense Department weren't put up here.”

King shrugged and went into his own bedroom to unpack. It was a comfortable room; it had everything he needed. The only difference from Dennis's room was that his mini-TV was black instead of red.

When they both were squared away, they went back into the living room to find Mimi and Gregory at a window, both of them looking straight down.

“What's going on?” Dennis asked.

“Come take a look,” Gregory said. “Easy—don't scare her.”

On the ledge outside was a dull-coated pigeon; a more brightly colored male fluttered anxiously nearby.

“It's a pigeon,” Dennis said, his voice implying
So?

“She has only one foot,” Mimi said.

It was true; the bird still had both legs, but the claw was missing from the end of one of them. As they watched, the pigeon waddled along the edge, her body tipping precariously to the side when she put her weight on her stump. King felt strange watching her.

“Maybe she's hungry,” Gregory said to Mimi. “Did we eat all the bagels?”

“I think there's one left.”

Gregory went to the kitchen to see. Dennis, uninterested in handicapped birdlife, flopped down on the sofa and stared at the silent TV screen, now showing a fantasy film. Gregory came back with the bagel.

The window was one of the old-fashioned kind that opened from the bottom. King turned the lock at the top; but when he tried to lift the window, he couldn't. “It's stuck.”

“These older buildings all have windows that are hard to open,” Mimi said with a sigh. “Here, let's both try.”

They each took a handle and heaved; together they got the window open … with a loud
screeeech
that startled everybody. Alarmed, the lame pigeon took flight, followed closely by her mate.

“At least nothing's wrong with her wings,” King said as he watched the two birds soar out of sight.

“Ah, that's too bad,” Gregory said regretfully. “I'll put some crumbs out anyway—maybe they'll come back. Hold the window.”

Easier said than done. The window was heavy, incredibly heavy; King and Mimi were both straining as Gregory leaned out over the windowsill to scatter bagel crumbs along the ledge. He pulled back in; the other two started to lower the window … but it got away from them and fell into place with a crash.

“Christ!” Dennis yelped.

“I'm surprised the glass didn't break,” Gregory murmured, unruffled. “Everybody all right?”

Everybody was all right, and everybody was suddenly famished. Mimi got her purse but then paused. “Do you mind waiting while I make a phone call? I want to leave a message for Michael.” Her husband.

Of course no one minded. But Mimi's mention of her husband reminded King of one very important social amenity he'd neglected: always ask about their spouses. He faced Gregory and said, “How's Sharon?”

“Karen. She's fine.”

Whoops
. King grinned inanely, unable to think of anything more to say.

Gregory gave him a superior smile that made King feel like a graceless dolt. Then the smaller man turned his back to King and started talking to Dennis. He was talking
at
him, King quickly realized, smoothly and energetically, without giving Dennis time to answer. It wasn't often he saw Dennis Cox playing straight man; but now his partner was reduced to saying
Oh?
and
Yes
and
Well, I
… as Gregory delivered what amounted to a monologue. There was a lot of Russ Panuccio in Gregory Dillard.

Mimi finished her phone call and they left the building. Once they were out in the pleasant May sunshine, Gregory decided there was no hurry. They took their time, stopping to look at anything that caught Gregory's eye. Gregory decided which direction they'd walk in, when they'd cross a street or turn a corner. Nobody seemed to mind except Dennis. “Kind of full of himself, isn't he?” he muttered to King.

Eventually they came to restaurant that looked inviting; they were early enough that the place wasn't crowded yet. The beige tablecloths and generally muted décor were exactly what Gregory was looking for, he said. They slid into a semicircular booth. Still asserting his leadership, Gregory ordered martinis for all of them. Dennis quickly countermanded the order and asked for a whiskey sour. King pressed his lips together to keep from laughing; Dennis never drank anything but martinis at lunch.

“Mimi, you look different,” King said amiably, “but I can't figure out how.”

“I'm the same as always,” she said. “You know, that one-footed pigeon upset me.”

A waiter put an industrial-strength martini in front of King and a different waiter handed him a roadmap-sized menu. King glanced hopelessly through the list of entrées and asked for a mushroom omelet.

“Christ, King, haven't you ever heard of green vegetables?” Dennis snapped. “Or meat?”

Mimi sighed. “I do wish you'd stop saying
Christ
all the time.”

“Huh. God Junior. Is that better?”

Gregory pretended to find that amusing. Mimi did not. Thoroughly out of temper by now, Dennis buried himself in the menu and ordered lamp chops and asparagus. Gregory ordered lamb chops and salad. Mimi ordered salad.

King conjectured that Dennis was sniping at him because he didn't have the nerve to take on Gregory Dillard. His spirits sank; he was afraid that today was just a foretaste of the way it was going to go with the four of them. King didn't have the tact to handle such tender egos; he foresaw a long period of squabbling and backbiting and wondered if Keystone and SmartSoft could ever merge into an effective team. Whichever project Warren Osterman was going to offer them, it had better be worth it.

Whatever it was.

4

Only a few of the nation's robot manufacturers had established corporate headquarters in New York City; by and large they found it more practical to maintain offices at the sites of the manufacturing plants themselves. MechoTech Corporation had fifty-five such plants, the nearest in Parsippany, New Jersey; but its corporate headquarters sat high up in the Bellows-Wright Building in midtown Manhattan. King Sarcowicz stood at a floor-to-ceiling window in one of MechoTech's conference rooms and experienced a twinge of vertigo.

They were waiting for Warren Osterman to make his appearance; King was glad of a moment or two to orient himself. MechoTech was forever rearranging its office floor plan and nothing was ever where it had been the last time he'd been there. One thing King did like about the place, though, was the fact that there were no cute little robots rolling around bearing trays of drinks or whatever.

“Long way down.” Gregory Dillard had joined him at the window. Gregory lowered his voice and asked, “Do you know what's bugging Dennis? He's been glowering at me ever since lunch.”

Maybe he doesn't like being one-upped
. King looked down at the top of Gregory's head and said, “No idea.”

“Did I say something? Did I do something?” Gregory was not in the least concerned about whether he'd offended Dennis or not; he was just well into his I-am-on-top-of-it mode. “If I did, I'd like to set it right.”

King simply shrugged, not much inclined to smooth things over for either of them. He turned from the window and glanced at the other two in the room. At that moment Dennis Cox and Mimi Hargrove were doing something that looked suspiciously like flirting. That was surprising, considering how heavily married Mimi was.

The door opened and Warren Osterman walked in. Nearing seventy, Osterman had hair so black it could only have been dyed. He was dressed in a tan pinstripe suit, a brown shirt, and a white tie. He was short, squat, and ugly. He looked like a gangster.

As self-appointed spokesman, Gregory advanced toward Osterman with his hand extended and words of appreciation for This Great Opportunity in his mouth. Osterman shook his hand perfunctorily, spoke to Mimi and Dennis, and turned his attention to King.

“Hello, Warren,” King said, pleased at seeing the old gangster again.

“Well, King, are you ready for a challenge?” Osterman smiled. “I've got one for you that's already defeated four design teams.”

“Chompin' at the bit.”

“Then let's get at it.” Osterman turned and pointed at a woman who had followed in his wake and whom none of the others had noticed. “You all know Rae Borchard.” King didn't. “She's going to be coordinating your project. You got problems—take 'em to Rae.”

Before anyone else could say anything, Gregory slid forward and gracefully took one of her hands in both of his. “Rae, this is a pleasure. I'm looking forward to working with you.”

“Thank you,” the woman said expressionlessly, and did not return the compliment.

Dennis Cox smothered a laugh. “Let's sit,” Warren Osterman commanded, taking his place at the head of the conference table. The woman named Rae Borchard sat to Osterman's right and King sat next to her; she was fortyish, but that was about all her appearance told about her—except that her looks were a bit quiet compared to Mimi's California brightness. Mimi was directly across the table from King, with Gregory on one side of her and Dennis on the other. Before each place was a legal pad and four newly sharpened pencils; King clasped his hands between his knees, not wanting to doodle during a meeting as important as this one.

Face-to-face with Mimi, King at last realized what was different about her: her hair. It was bigger. Mimi's face was rather narrow, and she now wore a compensatory hairdo that drew attention away from that narrowness. Her hair on each side of her head was exactly the same width as her face. King was so bemused by this tripartite structure of west hair, face, east hair, that he missed part of Warren Osterman's opening remarks.

“… and you're all free to reject the project I'm going to offer you, of course,” Osterman was saying. “There'll be no hard feelings. But I don't think you're going to want to pass this one up. The Department of Defense has decided to go for broke. They're proceeding on the assumption that the battlefield of the future will be close to one hundred percent lethal. If a soldier is seen, he will be killed.”

Dennis cleared his throat. “‘Seen' by … personnel? Or machines?”

“By machines. Mobile intelligence-gathering units, eye-spy orbitals, heat-sensing devices, you name it. Once one of those gizmos fingers one of our soldiers, he's had it. So the obvious solution is to remove the soldier from the direct-fire zone. Put him in a control unit and let him deploy his weapons from a distance. The next big war will be fought by remote control.”

“Machines fighting machines,” Gregory murmured.

“That's about it. The next war is going to be unbelievably destructive, in terms of both the natural environment and man-made structures. Our job is to keep the army alive and functioning.” Osterman went on to explain that MechoTech was contracted to manufacture several different offensive systems the Defense Department had decided were bound to be the most effective, all of them robots of one kind or another. “Defense has abandoned the idea of a central supercomputer controlling an entire battle from one spot. Instead they want a series of interlinked computers that process in parallel. That way if part of the system goes down, other parts can take over its functions.”

Mimi asked, “Is all this to be under the control of an artificial intelligence?”

Osterman looked at Rae Borchard, who answered the question. “No, AI will be used in support only—to alert the operator to the most threatening target or solve the allocation-of-fire problem and perform similar functions. It'll need to project probable outcomes of several available firing patterns and then recommend one. I have all the specifications here.” She distributed binders holding three inches of paper to each of them. “But all the decision-making will be done by the human operator. AI will function in an advisory capacity only.”

Mimi smiled. “Good. Sometimes Defense has an unrealistic picture of what machine intelligence can do.”

“Not anymore,” Osterman interjected. “They've gotten pretty sophisticated in the ways of robots and their programming. So by now you should be getting an idea of how big this project is. We're subcontracting forty-two different companies just to work on optics alone. I forget the number we've got working on acoustic sensors—Rae?”