3 O’clock Robot

by J. Robert Novak

(Editor intro: In this short science-fiction piece, J. Robert Novak proves that there are some things that science can’t fix.)

Dr. Schneider was, as they say, washed up.

Oh, sure, in his prime, he was considered to be one of the pioneers of robotics, cybernetics, and artificial intelligence. He did, after all, create the computer that beat Grandmaster Ivan Rasputichivichinski in Chutes & Ladders. His research did lead to advancements in prosthetic toes (with 13 points of articulation!). He even designed the new robots, the ones completely indistinguishable from, well, the old robots. His name was once synonymous with “the future”.

That was, however, in the past. At the present, his name was slowly fading into the abysmal obscurity that dooms many who peak early. He sat in his dusty laboratory. His equipment, once state-of-the-art, was now the robotics equivalent of Tinker-Toys. His investors were not happy, and they were threatening to sell all of his equipment for scrap, tear down his laboratory, and retire him to St. Turing’s Home for Obselete Inventors.

Dr. Schneider had one last chance, though. The 120th annual Robotics, Cybernetics, and Artificial Intelligences Expostition (or RoboCyboArtifExpo 120, as those “in the know” called it) was tomorrow, and he had an idea.

The good doctor had just read Richard Kemosabe’s book, One Dad, Two Dad, Red Dad, Blue Dad. In this tome, Mr. Kemosabe told that the rich investor was the one that took ridiculously stupid risks, the one who was not afraid of failure, the one who looked at each failure as an opportunity. Dr. Schneider took this lesson to heart. He applied this lesson, not to economics, but to robotics. He had built something that would either redeem his name or damn it permanently. He looked under the black tarp , smiled, and went to bed, eager for the next day’s demonstration.

*****************
The sun set. The moon rose, hung in the air for a time, got bored with all that, and sank down below the horizon. The sun, seeing that the moon had left, glad it would not have to talk to that whiny bastard, rose. The robotic roosters outside Dr. Schneider’s lab detected the sun’s light with their optical sensors and made a sound approximating the sound of their feather-and-blood counterparts.

The doctor got up, prepared himself by doing numerous ordinary, habitual things, too mundane to catalogue here, and loaded his invention in his trailer. He looked under the tarp one last time, smiled, and was off to reclaim his former glory.

**************
The RoboCyboArtifExpo 120 was a bustling ant farm of scientific academia. Professor Neuburg has here with is automatic fly-swatter. Doctors May and Dontelli had brought a Robo pet, or rather, a pet to keep your robot company. The brilliant Dr. Lohman had built a computer that she claimed could defeat the old Schneider model at Chutes & Ladders, a testament to Schneider’s continued influence on the world of technology. In other words, the most important things happening in technology were in this room.

But none of these things were as important as the thing that hummed to itself under Schneider’s black tarp.

Misters Blake, McCoy, Masters, and Hever, the representatives of the corporation that supported Schneider’s work, walked past. The corporation had it’s hands in the pockets of many of these scientists, so the RoboCyboArtifExpo was a good way for the company to catalogue it’s investments and decide who was an asset and who was a liability. These man applauded while looking at the automatic fly swatter. They giggled with glee as a display robot hugged its new Robo pet. They played a few games of Chutes & Ladders, and though they were each disappointed at their losses to the computer, none could argue against it’s artificial genius.

Finally, they came to doctor Schneider. “Well, Dr. Schneider? What do you have to show us?”

The doctor cleared his throat, confidently. “Gentlemen,” he began. “What you are about to see and hear will revolutionize the world of music. Prepare to be…AMAZED!!!!”

From under the tarp, a steady beep began to rhythmically pulse.
“I was thinking, sirs, that robots had been used for everything. They wash our cars, do our laundry, make our food, and now even swat our flies. However, while they have also made our music, there is one genre that, until now, they have never touched. And that’s why, today, I give to you…”
Wth that, he yanked the tarp off of his creation.
“THE REGGAETRON 2000!!!”

The robot was tall and silver. It was completely naked, save for a yellow and green knit cap that covered black rubber tubes running from its head. From its chest, a steady reggae beat issued. The robot smelled…funny.

“Well, Reggaetron 2000…say something!”

The robot paused. Then, in a staccato, monotone voice, it said, “HELLO MON THERE BE A WHOLE LOT O TECHNOLOGY G’WAN.”

Dr. Schneider looked at the men. “Well, gentlemen? What do you think?”

There was silence, a silence that was louder that the crowds of people at the other exhibits. Dr. Schneider beamed. He knew that his invention had rendered the men speechless. Now, all there was to do was to collect the new funds the company would send his way.

A minute later, the men spoke.

“Preposterous!” shouted Mr. Blake.

“Retarded!” yelled Mr. McCoy.

“Blasphemous!” screeched Mr. Masters.

“What the fuck!?!” boomed Mr. Hever.

******************

The next day, the doctor sat with his robot on the corner of Argyle and Orchard Dale, where his laboratory had, the day before, stood. He kept himself warm with the burning pages of Mr. Kemosabe’s book.

“HEY MON DO YOU WANT TO SMOKE DIS SHIT?”

The Doctor sighed. “Just shut up.”

The robot buzzed. “I ‘EAR YA MON I ‘EAR YA,” it said, taking a hit on a digital spliff.