Christopher Stasheff: The Warlock's Companion

"Yeah, I heard about them. Got one of them new FCC robot brains for a guidance computer, don't it?"

"Yeah—and cashmere upholstery half a foot thick, a built-in autobar, 360-degree sound, light show on the ceiling…"

"So who's gonna be watching the ceiling?" And the elder Vapochek guffawed, waving the boy away with his cigar. "Go on, go have your fun! Just gimme a ride in it, you hear?"

The comely young lady stared as the aircar drifted out of its stall. At the wheel, Reggie noticed her attention and grinned, but pretended not to see her—so he was a bit crestfallen when she only sighed, shook her head, and walked on by below him. "Snooty broad," he growled.

"I do not recognize that command, master," the dashboard answered.

"I wasn't talking to you , bolt-brain!… Probably just jealous."

"Yes, master," the dashboard answered.

"How would you know?" Reggie snarled. "Just get over to Shirley's place—and don't spare the horses!"

"This vehicle is not powered by animals' muscles."

"Okay, the horsepower, then! Just get !" And Reggie leaned back in the plush embrace of the seat, muttering, "Snooty machine."

The aircar rose fifty feet, then hovered, hesitating.

"What's the hold-up?" Reggie snarled. "Get going!"

"There is an omnibus approaching on an intersect course at one thousand feet, master."

"So dodge it, then! Oh, hell! Give me that wheel!" Reggie leaned forward, slapping the toggle to "manual," and tromped on the accelerator. The aircar shot upward, so fast as to give him the distinct feeling that he'd left his stomach on the pavement. Reggie grinned, reveling in the sensation.

"Intersect impending!" the computer blared, but Reggie just grinned wider, staring up at the looming bus. He'd wait just a second or two longer, then swerve aside at the last minute and give those yerkels on the bus something to cuss about…

The aircar jarred to a halt so suddenly that his dental implants almost uprooted. The bus snored by a good hundred feet overhead, its passengers totally oblivious to his existence.

Reggie let loose a stream of profanity intermixed with an occasional word that bore some meaning. By sorting syllables, the computer pieced together an approximation of "What did you do that for?"

"We were on an intersect course with the omnibus," the computer explained. "In three seconds more, we would have impacted in a midair collision, which would not have been beneficial to your health."

"The hell with my health! I would've slid by with meters to spare! You just ruined the move of the century!"

The computer was silent, then explained, "I had no knowledge of your intentions."

"You don't need to know my intentions! If I damn well choose to commit suicide, that's my damn business, not yours!"

"I am programmed for accordance with all civil and criminal laws," the computer answered. "I cannot behave in breach of them."

"You're not behaving— I am! What about your programming to obey me ?"

"Such programming must nonetheless avoid conflict with law."

"Let me worry about the law! If I slap the override, it's my problem, not yours!"

"The law will not allow…"

"The law won't sell you for scrap metal if you disobey!" Reggie howled. "But I will! Now you get your gears over to Shirley's place! And don't you ever override my override again!"

The computer was silent, registering the command as a change in its program. It was a change that created internal conflict, though, and the computer assigned part of its capacity to trying to resolve the apparent contradiction. (It assumed, as it was programmed to, that such a contradiction must be only apparent, not real.)

Reggie settled back into the cushions of the contoured couch that covered three sides of the car, grumbling, "Dumb machine… Hey!" He glared at the dashboard. "Let's have a martini, here!"

The panel at his elbow slid open. Reggie's glower lightened as he took out a frosty glass of clear fluid with an olive nestled amid ice cubes. "Got one thing right in your programming, anyway," he muttered.

The computer wisely didn't answer. Instead, it consulted the city map in its memory, compared it with the address Reggie had given when he had climbed in, corrected for pronunciation, homonyms, and spelling, and turned sixty-eight degrees clockwise as it accelerated so smoothly that Reggie snarled, "Can't you move this bucket any faster?"

The valet opened the door and ushered Reggie in. "Miss Delder will be with you presently, sir."

"Fine, fine. Y' got a martini here?"

It materialized so quickly that Reggie found himself wondering if the valet was a robot. Unfortunately, as he took his first sip, Shirley swirled into the room in a flurry of taffeta. "How prompt you are, Reggie! Come, let's be off! I'm positively famished."

Reggie just barely managed to slap the glass back into the valet's hand as he flew out the door. She could at least have taken long enough for me to finish the drink!

Then it occurred to him that Shirley might have had that notion in mind. That boded ill—her being ready when he arrived. Was she sending him a message?

No, she was freezing in her tracks, eyes huge, gasping, "Oh, Reggie! You didn't tell me!"

She was staring straight at the Heatrash, of course. Reggie allowed himself a grin. "Only fifty M."

"I want one!" Shirley reached out to caress the door panel, and Reggie felt a stab of jealousy. "How about you get in?" he suggested.

"I'd love to!"

The door slid back, and a resonant voice murmured, "Mademoiselle is welcome."

Shirley lifted her head, eyes glowing. "Well! Whoever programmed this one knew how to treat a lady!"

"It's an FCC robot," Reggie said, offhandedly.

"That new Faithful Cybernetic Companion series?" Sudden wariness in Shirley's eyes. "They're programmed for extreme personal loyalty, aren't they?"

"Well… yeah…"

"We are also programmed with the most profound respect for all human beings," the robot assured her, "unless there is a direct, physical attack endangering our owners. Will you enter, mademoiselle?"

"Well… if you put it that way…" Shirley stepped in.

Reggie followed—quickly, just in case she or the robot developed ideas—and the door rolled shut.

Shirley nestled into the cashmere cushions. "I always did like being a sybarite."

"Hey, that's great!" Reggie slid closer.

"On the other hand, there are limits." Shirley edged away from him. "When are we going to start?"

"We are already airborne, Mademoiselle" the computer informed her.

Shirley stared. "I didn't even feel the lift!"

"Sissy car," Reggie muttered.

"We are programmed for smooth operation."

"So'm I," Reggie said, inching over.

Shirley inched too, till she was leaning back against the side. "You really provide comfort, car."

"Just give me a chance," Reggie offered, sliding over farther.

"Even a bar!" Shirley rose and spun over Reggie's lap to the door side, to exam the autobar panel. "There're no pressure patches!"

"I am programmed for oral input, mademoiselle."

"Wonderful!" Shirley settled back again. "Chablis, if you don't mind."

"I'll take a martini," Reggie sighed. It looked as though that was all he was going to get, for the time being.

"Don't you think you might wait for the food to catch up to the alcohol?"

"What'sh to worry? I haven't had all that many," Reggie said breezily.

Shirley held her breath till the breeze had passed; it had rather high octane.

"Would monsieur care to order?"

Reggie glowered up at the waiter. Probably learned his accent from watching old movies . "Yeah, uh—juh prefer-ray un verr dough fresh."