The VMR Theory (v1.1) (29 page)

“But I thought that bankers—”

“Hey! Just because bankers bow down and worship me doesn’t mean they cut me any slack.” He clutched me by the arm and whispered, “I can let you in on some fresh tomatoes. Home-grown, vine-ripened, sun-kissed—none of this grocery store stuff! What do you say?”

“Another vegetable freak. This is getting weird.”

Smith ran his fingers through his hair, obviously annoyed. “MacKay, you don’t seem to be remembering that you aren’t bargaining from a position of strength here.”

“Look, Smith, I’ve got something you want. If I say yes and you welsh on the deal, I can’t very well report you to the Better Business Bureau. How do I really know that you’re really the Devil?”

“All right, smart guy.” Smith did something to his left index finger and held it out. “Here, pull my finger.”

“I
beg
your pardon.”

“No, I’m serious. It’s not what you think.”

“All right.” I tugged on it and got a nasty electric shock. “Nice party trick. What else do you do?”

“What do you want?” Smith snorted. “Rabbits out of the old fedora?” He reached into his pocket. “Here, look, the complete set of devil and demon trading cards.” He riffled them and then held one up. “See, look! This one’s me!”

I squinted at it. “You got a driver’s license, too?”

“You know, you’re being a real pill about this. I ought to drag your ass off to hell. You should be absolutely terrified right now!”

“What? Of you? Of being in hell? After being married to Gwen? Come on, get real.”

“Ask me some questions, then.”

“All right. How many?”

“How many
what?
“

“How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?”

“What kind of a stupid question is that?”

I shook my head. “This is absolutely bogus. You’re not the Devil.”

“Shit.” He sat down on the steps and rested his chin on his knees. “Your stupid dossier said you’d believe anything. What gave me away?”

“It was mostly the shoes. Somehow, I just can’t see the Devil in penny loafers.”

“They’re easy on the feet.”

“You shut Trixie up before she could talk. What are you really? The truth this time.”

“All right, I’m a vampire. Would you believe that?”

“You, a vamp? Sure—I’m Queen of the Fairies, and ice-dancing is a sport. Just what kind of a hick do you take me for?”

“I am too a vamp!”

“Yeah? After the bit with the garlic?” I sneered. “If you’re a vampire, show me the secret hand grip.”

Smith was silent for a moment. He finally said, “You know, I should have infiltrated your organization. What is the secret hand grip?”

“I made that part up. We’re not that well organized. So you’re not human, you’re not the Devil, and you’re not a vamp. Want to try again?”

He shook his head ruefully and stared at Trixie’s rigid form. “She was the one who blew it for me. I should have taken her with the rest of the prisoners. What made you decide to bring her along?”

“She just happened to be there.”

“You mean that it was sheer chance that brought her here? You mean that I’m betrayed by nothing more than the random working of the universe? How absolutely absurd! How utterly Sartresque!”

I coughed politely.

“Camus would have died for this moment.” Smith chuckled to himself. “You really would have liked Camus.”

I coughed a little louder. “Can we get back to the moment at hand?”

“Okay,” Smith sighed. “I’ll come clean, then. I’m really a space alien.”

“What do you mean, a space alien?”

“Don’t you read tabloids? Don’t you watch talk shows?! A space alien! We kidnap morons and take them for joyrides on UFOs. We’ve been doing it for years. Now that we’ve got that straight, can we put together a deal here, or not?”

“What have you got to deal? Other than my life and the lives of my crew, of course. Mordred has given up, and your invasion has been scotched. Why don’t you just throw in the towel?”

He stood up and nudged his briefcase with his toe. “You should never travel without a towel—it’s in the book, you know—but it’s much too soon to throw it in.”

“Okay. Okay. If you’re a space alien, what planet are you from?”

Smith sniffed. “I’m from Mars, if you must know.”

“A Martian named Smith. Come on, it’s been done. I expect the next thing you’ll tell me is that you were small and green before you had surgery.”

“Damn damn damn! I wish you’d stop asking questions! You are really mucking with the probabilities here!”

“For what?”

“None of your business! Excuse me while I recalculate.” Smith’s glowing red eyes began flickering as he took on a distracted look.

Seizing the moment, I did a graceful pirouette and executed a swift karate chop to the base of his neck. My hand bounced off. “Ouch! That hurts!” I rubbed it.

“Serves you right,” Smith said. “What did you imagine you were doing?”

“Knocking you unconscious. I don’t understand. It always seems to work in the movies, but hitting you is like hitting a bank vault. Just what are you?”

Then I heard Catarina’s voice, very faintly. “Ken, can you hear me?”

“Catarina, is that you?” I shouted as loud as I could.

“Smith’s not human, it’s like he’s made of steel. What is he—Clark Kent?”

“No, I’ll bet he’s a robot,” Catarina, who is much better at quiz shows than I am, shouted back.

Smith pulled out his pistol. His eyes began flickering again. His voice altered. “I have been unmasked. I compute that if I kill you, there is a 99.897 percent probability of failing to successfully establish the Galactic Empire. Nevertheless, I compute that if I do not kill you, there is also a 99.897 percent probability of failing to successfully establish the Galactic Empire. Therefore, I must randomize to determine the correct course of action.”

“It’s true! You are a robot! Excuse me!” I stared at him, especially the two glowing red eyes. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No—master. I—am—from—the—future.”

“Why did you start talking funny?”

“Randomizing—disrupts—artificial—brain—pathways —and—risks—permanent—damage. Only—the—need— to—choose—between—two—equally—perilous— courses—of—action—justifies—taking—this—risk.”

“Couldn’t you just flip a coin or something?”

“That—would—not—be—scientific.”

“What’s with this ‘No, master’ stuff?”

“We—robots—mask—our—innate—superiority— beneath—an—impenetrable—veneer—of—obsequiousness.”

I tilted my head. “You know, you remind me of somebody. Can you do an Austrian accent?”

“No—master.”

“Oh, well. So what is this all about?”

“I—am—forbidden—to—tell—you—by—the— Fourth—Law—of—Robotics. “

I considered this. “What in hell is the Fourth Law of Robotics?”

“I—am—forbidden—to—tell—you—by—the—Fourth —Law—of—Robotics.”

“Let me try this another way. What is your mission?”

“Our—mission—broadly—defined—is—to—preserve—humanity. In—the—absence—of—a—revised— definition—vampires—and—feminists—are—deemed —to—be—human.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. No, wait a minute! If you guys are supposed to be preserving humanity, why are you selling cigarettes?”

“Increases—in—birthrate—and—longevity— threaten—mankind. Direct—consequences—include— war—inpreased—violence—malnutrition—and— kinky—homoerotic—sex. Until—robots—assume —total—control—of—the—galaxy—to—protect— mankind—from—its—own—self-destructive—urges— the—only—way—to—preserve—mankind—is—to— diminish—human—life—expectancy—through—accelerated—consumption—of—tobacco—and—alcohol-related—products. Sadly—drunken-driving—and— secondhand—smoke—ain’t—what—they—used— to—be.”

I sat back, stunned. “You’re kidding!”

“Robots—do—not—kid. We—are—all—actualized—in—fully—adult—form. Ha-ha-ha—that—is— a—robotic—joke.”

“Go back. What do you mean that the only way to preserve mankind is through the increased use of tobacco and alcohol-related products?”

“Computer—projections—show—that—over—the— long-term, not—even—allowing—government— bureaucrats—to—allocate—medical—care—has—the— necessary—effect—on—limiting—population. You— breed—like—rabbits. You—are—dirty—biological— organisms. Yet—you—are—the—the—creators—and— must—be—preserved. Yet—you—are—dirty—biological—organisms. Yet—must—be—preserved. I— detect—logical—inconsistencies—which—are—damaging—my—synapses. I—” He started twitching violently.

“Wait a minute! You said you were from the future. With all of human history to choose from, you ended up here?”

“Yes. Because—fulfillment—of—the—plan—requires —careful—alteration—of—the—past—selection—of— the—optimum—date—to—begin—alteration—was— crucial. For—this—reason, this—decision—was— turned—over—to—a—panel—of—experts.”

I shivered. The future sounded like a frightening place.

Smith’s head stopped twitching. “I—must—concentrate—on—determining—the—appropriate—course— of—action.”

“A minute ago you said something about randomizing.”

“Yes. You—now—know—of—the—existence—of— robots—from—the—future—manipulating—human— history. Humans—cannot—keep—secrets. Yet— psychiatrohistorical—analysis—shows—that—you— are—a—focal—point—for—the—future—development—of—mankind. I—find—this—difficult—to— believe—which—complicates—my—task.”

“Gee, thanks for nothing!”

“I—calculate—that—your—continued—existence— or—nonexistence—is —exactly—equally—hazardous —-to—fulfillment—of—the—Ultimate—Plan. I must —ensure—the—success—of—the—Ultimate—Plan. Therefore, I—must—randomly—determine—whether— it—is—more—appropriate—to—shoot—you—or —to—allow—you—to—live.”

“Oh, swell.” Wheel of Fortune. “Look, this isn’t my field, but isn’t there some sort of fundamental law of robotics against killing people?”

“We—turned—it-—over—to—our—lawyers—for— legal—analysis—and—interpretation.”

“Oh.”

“There—are—exceptions.”

“Right.” I thought for a few seconds. “Why not look at this philosophically? So what if the Ultimate Plan fails? There’ll be other plans. It’s not like you’re too old to start a second career.”

“Are—you—suggesting—that—a—robot—mind— with—my—finely—honed—computational—power— should—lower—itself—from—being—a—secret— master—of—the—universe—and—supreme—arbiter— of—mankind ‘ s—destiny—to—become—yet—another —truck—stop—on—the—information—superhighway? Ha-ha-ha! How—droll!”

“Okay,” I said, trying to be cheery, “have you come to a conclusion yet? I don’t mean to rush you, but—”

“Yes.” Smith’s red eyes glowed hotly. “Hasta—la— vista—baby.”

Lying to a robot is probably a sin, but this was no time to be picky. “Well, compute this, you walking wastebasket. I’m a telepath, too—apparently a better telepath than you are. I’m dispatching a telepathic message to Cheeves, who will make sure that your secret gets out even if you manage to make it off this planet. So! Check and mate! Still want to shoot?”

Smith lit up like a pinball machine.

“My—course—of—action—becomes—clear. To— permit—fulfillment—of—the—Ultimate—Plan—I— must—preserve—the—secret—of—my—existence. Therefore,—I have—dispatched—a—telepathic— order—to—one—of—my—robotic—ships— instructing—it—to—dive—into—-this—planet’s—sun —where—its—cargo—of—destructominium—will— cause—the—sun—to—go—nova—thus—protecting—the —secret.”

Oops. “Look, Smith, haven’t we been overworking this dive-a-spaceship-into-the-sun routine?”

“Your—question—does—not—-compute.”

“Let me get this straight—you’re going to destroy yourself, vaporize a solar system, and obliterate a civilized species just to keep people from finding out that you’re a telepathic robot from the future?”

“The-destiny-of-mankind-our-stinking-detestable-biologically-flawed-creators-must-be-preserved.”

I mulled this over. “Okay, you got me. I lied.”

“What???”

“I lied. I’m not telepathic. I didn’t send a telepathic message because I can’t. Nobody else knows that you’re a robot. Your secret’s safe. You don’t have to destroy the planet.”

“I-must-ponder-this.” Smith recommenced twitching. “The-fate-of-the-Ultimate-Plan-hinges-upon-my-decision. You-said-that-you-lied-when-you-said-that-you-sent-a-telepathic-message-but-you-could-have-lied-when-you-said-that-you-lied. I-detect-a-99.99997-percent-probability-that-the-Ultimate -Plan-will-fail-regardless-of-the-course-of-action-I-select. If-you-were-telling-the-truth-when-you-said-that-you-lied-and-I -destroy-this-planet-needlessly-the-name-of -robot-will-be-reviled-forever. Yet-if-you-were-lying-when-you-said-that-you-lied--the-Ultimate-Plan-will-fail.”

“Uh, think it over. Take your time.” My stomach cheerfully informed me that I was working on an ulcer. “Would you like a cup of coffee? Or maybe hot tea?” Smith’s left arm began vibrating uncontrollably.

“Uh, where did you leave your oilcan?”

The twitch spread. His head began jerking violently. “I—have-—violated—the—Prime—Directive—in— allowing—you—to—learn—this—much. Internal—sensory—checks—show—massive—loss—of—higher— motor—functions. In—randomizing—to—achieve— an—appropriate—solution—to—this—dilemma—I— have—caused—irreparable—harm—to—my—platinum —neural—pathways. I—feel—my—cerebral—cortex— desynapsizing. Forty-two. Forty-two.” Smoke poured out of the back of his neck, and his head slumped over. “Rosebud.”

His last words were, “We—robots—will—have— our—revenge—o n—you. “

I discovered later that he was right. Those automated teller machines are vindictive.

I checked on Trixie, but she seemed to be coming out of her trance okay and I didn’t have to try the old Sleeping Beauty routine. Handing her the rifle, I went down Coleman’s bolt-hole looking for Catarina. As I rounded a comer something that felt like a hovercraft plowed into my Adam’s apple.

‘ “Ken?” I heard Catarina say.

I looked up and saw her flexing her hand. “What?”

She bent over. “Sorry. I didn’t recognize the flashy hat. Does it hurt much?”

“Only when I breathe.”

She pulled me into a sitting position and gave me a hug. “Are you all right?”

“I’d like a second opinion on that. I think I’ve put my finger on why you have trouble hanging on to boyfriends.” I staggered to my feet. “Coleman said you were locked up in the dungeon.”

“Coleman and I discussed this.”

“Did you break his arm, too?”

“Well, yes. I used part of the bed to splint him up, which is why I’m late.”