Only Human (40 page)

‘Ninety seconds,' Artofel warned. ‘Starting now.'

Bumble smiled apologetically. ‘It's quite simple, really. We haven't any guards handy, true, but you're all still stuck in the wrong bodies, and we can put you right again quite easily; those of you, that is,' he added, ‘who actually want to go back. Of course, you could wait for Maintenance to come and do it, but I wouldn't advise that.'

‘Good point,' Artofel admitted. ‘They're a bit slow,' he explained to the others. ‘And I think putting us back would come lower on their list of priorities than retrieving Atlantis or filling in the holes in the sky the rain leaks through, and all the other things they've been promising to do for ages but never got round to. So that's the deal, is it? You put us back, we let you go?'

Bumble made a pacifying gesture. ‘All due respect,' he said, ‘but that's not a terribly good deal as far as my colleagues and I are concerned. I know you people do have slight reservations about certain ethical aspects of this project of ours—'

‘You bet we've got reservations. More than you'd find in a major hotel chain and the whole Apache nation put together.'

‘But,' Bumble continued, politely but firmly, ‘the fact remains that we've invested a lot of time and money in this venture. Now then, if I could perhaps suggest a compromise that'll be acceptable to all parties—?'

Artofel patted the palm of his hand with his stick. ‘Hang on,' he said. ‘I'm not sure about this.'

‘Why don't we vote on it?' Maria suggested.

Artofel sighed. ‘Indeed. Why not? All in favour?'

A moment later he made it unanimous by raising his hand as well.

‘All right,' he grumbled. ‘You, carry on. This had better be good, mind.'

Bumble nodded. ‘It is, I promise you,' he said, sitting down on a dislodged cistern. ‘Now then, everyone, I'd just like to remind you of what this project was designed to achieve: the improved human being, remember?'

Len raised an eyebrow. ‘I've missed out on all of this,' he said. ‘Is this small, flat person making sense to anybody?'

‘Yes,' Artofel replied grudgingly. ‘And the plan was to mince all of us up into sawdust and make us into reconstituted Adams and Eves. I hope that bit's been edited out in the revised version?'

‘Oh yes,' Bumble assured him. ‘No need for all that.' He avoided the female's eye, and continued: ‘After all, why go to all that trouble when our friend here' - he nodded politely at Len - ‘has already done the job for us? I'm referring,' he explained, ‘to that simply gorgeous robot of yours.'

‘Who, me?' squeaked the robot, blushing rust-coloured to the roots of its circuitry.

‘You,' Bumble confirmed. ‘A perfect android. Which means,' he went on, as Maria opened her mouth to object, ‘there would have to be just a few minor changes made before it'd be what we're looking for.'

Len looked stern. ‘Oh yes?' he said. ‘And what did you have in mind? That's my design we're talking about. I don't see why it should need fiddling about with.'

‘Because it's perfect,' Bumble said, with a sweet smile. ‘And, for reasons which your colleague here has so eloquently explained, perfect's not quite right in this instance. Do you think you could make just a few minor modifications,' he went on, ‘nothing major, a handful of minor glitchlets that won't significantly affect performance but ought still to be enough to allow a self-respecting deity to feel insufferably smug?'

‘I don't know,' Len confessed. ‘What had you in mind, exactly?'

Bumble scratched the back of his head. ‘Now then,' he said, looking round, ‘let me see. With a whole roomful of inspiration to choose from this shouldn't be unduly difficult.'

‘I still think we should bash them just a bit,' Artofel grumbled, spinning the broken bar in his fingers like a majorette's baton. ‘And before anybody says anything about forgiving being divine, that doesn't mean we can't bash them now and forgive them later.'

‘How about this?' Bumble said. ‘First,' he went on, looking Artofel squarely in the eye, ‘what aspect of my esteemed colleague from Pensions would be appropriate for inclusion in our revised human? A slight tendency towards shortness of temper, perhaps? An inclination to thump first and reason later?'

‘Only if you're looking for improvements,' Artofel snarled. ‘If this business has taught me anything about Up There, it's that there's too much talking and not enough bashing where it actually matters the most.'

‘All right, then,' Bumble said, conceding the point with a charming gesture. ‘When the proverbial chips are down and push comes to shove, whatever that means, our revised version will talk when he should be bashing and bash when he should be talking. That's the first amendment. Any offers for number two?'

‘Call that an amendment?' said Len. ‘That's just a straight copy, as far as I can see.'

‘True,' Bumble said, ‘but with a slight yet significant adjustment that will in practice make a lot of difference. You see, when our titanium friend here talks, he'll talk with such eloquence, people will have to listen. And when he bashes—'

‘I hate to admit it,' Artofel said, ‘but perhaps the creep's got something here. Do go on, I'm interested.'

Bumble bowed courteously. ‘So pleased,' he said. ‘Now, this delightful young lady on my left immediately suggests a most useful modification.'

Maria sniffed. ‘Cut the flannel,' she said. ‘I get the feeling you're about to insult me.'

‘How typically perceptive. Now let me see, how shall I put this? Perhaps you'd be good enough to tell me, in your own words, the difference between a painting and a photograph?'

‘Um.' Maria thought for a moment. ‘Well actually,' she said, ‘maybe I'm not the right person to ask. I'm not a hundred per cent sure what a photograph is.'

‘Then I'll tell you,' Bumble said. ‘A photograph is what someone actually looks like. A painting is what someone wants to look like. For your sake, we'll give the robot the ability to lie. But to lie convincingly,' he added, ‘so that it'll be believed, because its lie is so much nicer than the truth.'

The female demon looked up. ‘Bumble, you old ass,' she said, ‘this is perfectly splendid stuff. Why didn't you mention any of this before?'

‘Because you never let me get a word in edgeways. And now we come to the machine; what does that suggest, do you suppose? I think a machine cares more about how well the job is done than about what the job actually is. Inspired by this example, the robot will do its job and the hell with the consequences. And do it very well indeed, it goes without saying. Which leads us naturally to our political friend here, from whom we'll borrow the quintessential enigma of the lemming. Outside every lemming, after all, there's a human being struggling to get in. Accordingly, the robot will be programmed to do what it's told; and if that's not enough on its own to allow any self-respecting God to feel superior to it, then I don't know what is. Agreed?'

‘I don't want to bash them
much
,' Artofel whimpered. ‘Just a
bit
. Surely that's not too much to ask.'

‘Agreed,' Maria said firmly. ‘And in return, I don't have to go back to being a picture.'

‘And I can stay a machine?'

‘Squeak?'

‘And,' Artofel sighed resignedly, ‘I can finally get back to my desk; oh all right, then. This time you get away with it. You're still going to get your holidays in October for the next thousand years, though. I've promised myself that, if nothing else.'

Bumble smirked; the rest of the conspirators relaxed. Len had already unscrewed an access panel at the base of the robot's neck, and was fiddling around with a screwdriver and a small pair of pliers. Something went
zap!
; he cursed, lifted his finger to his lips, left it there for a moment—

‘It's just occurred to me,' he said thoughtfully, ‘that if I were to leave this robot more or less as it is, and you lot were to lift a human soul out of somewhere and put it in here, you'd have the makings of a perfect being, just like you originally wanted, but without having to mince anybody up or even break any of your local regulations. Think about it for a moment, will you, before I start mucking it about. It'd be physically superior, if it got ill you could cure it in a jiffy by fitting spare parts, it's connected up to all the wisdom of the race by computer link, and it's got none of the self-and-everything-else-destructive tendencies that make the current organic version such a walking disaster area.' He let his arms fall to his sides. ‘It's the most incredible opportunity,' he said. ‘We could do the job
properly
. We'd make God look like Sir Clive Sinclair.'

The conspirators grimaced at each other. ‘Absolutely,' said the female wearily. ‘And nobody would want to buy it. You silly old sausage, haven't you been listening? There's four things in the universe that are guaranteed to be completely unmarketable: steel-wool knickers, newspapers that tell the truth,
really
sensible shoes and perfection. Remember that and one day you might get somewhere in business. Come on, people, we've got calls to make. Bring that thing up to my office when you've finished fiddling with it.'

 

In the event, it took Len rather longer than he'd anticipated to install the design faults into the robot; not that it mattered, because in Hell as well as in Heaven,Time has no meaning. Nevertheless, it was far harder for him to make deliberate mistakes than to do the work properly. To err is human; to perfect, machine.

But eventually, he looked upon the work that he had made and saw that it was bad. And the morning and evening was the seventh day.

Kevin was looking the other way when the words appeared on the screen, so he didn't see them for nearly ninety seconds. It was only when the computer bleeped discreetly that he swivelled round.

‘Mainframe?' he whispered.

‘Mainframe? What the . . .?'

 

‘
Mainframe!
You're
back
!'

 

‘Huh?'

Kevin stabbed the keyboard, and the screen immediately filled with a huge, beaming Happy Face.

‘No,' Kevin whispered, ‘that'll do just fine. You mean, everything's all right again?'

‘That's wonderful, Mainframe.' Kevin hesitated, gnawing his lower lip. ‘Actually,' he said, ‘there's one specific detail I'd like further data on, if that's all right. May I?'

Kevin took a deep breath. ‘What about Karen?' he asked. ‘You know, Karen from the KIC Helpline. Only, I was rather hoping I could ring her up, maybe ask her out for a—'

Kevin saggd, like the knees of a pair of charity-shop trousers. ‘Dead?' he mumbled. ‘But you said everything was all right.You said—'

‘But that's
wrong
,' Kevin shrieked, battering the desktop with his clenched fists. ‘That's
not right
! Mainframe, do something! Put it all back the way it was. I don't care if Dad finds out and skins me alive, just make her alive again. Please!'

For the first time ever, Kevin's eyes were full of tears. ‘But Mainframe, that's impossible.You can't have mortals dying because we've made cock-ups. There must . . .'

‘You mean,' Kevin said, ‘it's better for her? She'll be happier now?'

‘But she's not Karen any more,' Kevin insisted, his eyes red and his voice snuffly. ‘There's isn't any more Karen, not anywhere. And it's all my fault. Isn't it?'

 

>

 

‘Mainframe?'