“This is Benjamin Babbage. May I speak to Henry Schram?”
The voice was so calm, so—comfortable, that was it. It sounded like a professor, like one of those guys who introduced shows on PBS, sitting in a leather armchair all wrapped in tweed. Speaking slowly, savoring the words, like he’d never had to hurry, or raise his voice, in his life.
Hank hated him immediately.
“Whaddya want? You’re gonna make it on time, don’t worry. I do good work.” It was more than he’d meant to say.
“I understand you do, sir. I also hear you will not be coming along on the flight. That makes me sad.”
So what are you doing, Hank thought? Writing me an essay on how your mood feels?
“If you don’t tell me what you want, I’m hanging up,” he said.
“Don’t do that. I need you to come with me. I don’t want to trust myself to a less competent mechanic.”
“I got things to do. I have to do ’em. This isn’t something I can put off.”
“I understand, sir. Try and understand my position. It is similar to wanting the best surgeon available to massage your heart muscle, even if the second best surgeon is very nearly as good as the best. The consequences of error can be very great.”
He was comfortable, but he was scared, Hank thought. He respected the man’s balls, not to let fear show in his voice.
Then he realized how stupid that thought was.
But it didn’t make him angry at Babbage, the way he expected it to. It was hard to blame a machine, even a lawyer-machine.
“Your employer has explained your position to me, sir. I have also taken the liberty of doing some research, in hopes of discovering a way to induce you to come with me. I think I have found it.”
“I already told Hobart, it isn’t the money. The money’s great… I mean, I would if I could, but I—”
“Will you step into the aircraft and discuss it with me, sir?” Babbage said.
Hank didn’t want to. Not because of the tug-of-war with Rowe; he was too tired to care about that, and besides, he’d won. He just didn’t want to face the guy and tell him no, again. He wanted to get the job done, right, and go home to bed. Better yet, he could bunk at the airport.
Then tonight he’d see about patching things up with Megan. He didn’t have any idea how he was going to do that.
So he sighed, and was about to tell Babbage he was too busy, when he saw his own black station wagon pull up to the loading entrance.
Megan’s red hair showed above the steering wheel. And she’d brought the boys.
And the first thing that went through Hank Schram’s mind, as he stood there burning with fatigue, was:
How in the hell did Babbage get my wife to come down here?
But he’d been having a lot of stupid ideas today.
He had said too much to Babbage. He didn’t know why he did that. It bothered him not to know why he did things.
But he knew exactly why he bounded up the short ladder into the tail section of the 757, back where the bulk of the wing stood between him and his wife:
Hank Schram was not used to hating himself.
“Awright, Babbage, on your feet. Let’s… uh, strike that,” Hank said.
“Consider it stricken,” Babbage said. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah.” He had to take a breath to go on. He was almost on his knees, squatting in front of Babbage’s microphone outlet. It hurt to maintain the tension in his calves, but he was damned if he was going to kneel.
“Yeah, you can help all of us. Just take all this crap I attached to you and get on a cargo plane. You can get one for less than what all eighteen first-class seats on this baby cost. I checked.”
“Actually, Mr. Schram, a cargo slot of my dimensions is slightly more expensive than—”
“Awright, I didn’t check! I didn’t have time, because I’m spending my whole day and night rigging you out to play tourist when there’s a much easier solution right next door for a couple more bucks.”
Babbage had kept right on speaking when Hank interrupted him, but in that same soft voice. Hank had no idea what he said. Now Babbage went on:
“But the cargo plane won’t do, Mr. Schram.”
“I’ll put in the extra bucks myself. I’m not a lawyer; I get my hands dirty for a living. But I want you outta here, outta my life, and I mean now.”
Babbage paused. Then:
“It isn’t the money,” he said. “I don’t make all that much after paying for maintenance, you know. I need to ride in a passenger plane because I am a passenger.”
“You’re cargo, too,” Hank said. “Same difference.”
“It’s not. I have to be a passenger, just like anybody else. You wouldn’t put a blind man in a box and ship him as cargo, would you?”
Hank blinked. “No.”
“Would you ship a person in a wheelchair, or a deaf-mute, like they were so much scrap paper? How about a black man, or a woman, or a Jew? Are they people or are they cargo?”
“Hold on a minute—what kinda Nazi crap is this? Jews, blacks—what do they have to do with shipping cargo?”
But Hank had a feeling he knew.
“Once, they weren’t human beings, either,” Babbage said softly. “Oh, I grant you they were human in every sense that counted, except in the eyes of the law In the eyes of the law, they were property. Objects.
“Cargo.”
Hank pursed his lips. He was starting to feel like a jerk again.
“Nobody’s saying you’re not human, Babbage. I mean, you know—a legal person. Whatever. It doesn’t make any difference how you get to Dallas, right? The important thing is, you’re there.”
“But that’s the whole point of this hearing, Mr. Schram. I’m a person in law because of a ruling last year in Cook County. My practice of law, my ability to own property, even to control my own location and function—it all hinges on that one decision by an elected judge. Now the state supreme court of Texas has a motion before it to declare me the property of Austin-Sys, my purchaser. My freedom is at risk.”
Hank blew out a sigh. He was still mad at Babbage—would be for some time, probably. He’d put Hank in a hell of a bind back home.
“Can’t you get a, whaddyacallit, contingency?”
“I have tried. But I’m not actually a party to the suit. The defendant is Model Business Machines, my manufacturer. I filed an amicus brief, but honestly, Model isn’t in much danger. If I’m a person, people will want a Model 2600 to be their lawyer, or their companion. If I’m not, corporations can go back to buying 2600s to run their e-mail.”
“Not as much danger as you, you mean.”
“That is true. Everything I do is being scrutinized as ammunition for one side or the other. So if I fly—and I must fly to get there on time—I must fly the way people do.”
Hank blew a breath through his nostrils. He stood up.
“OK. I’ll do what I can for you. You’ll get there on time. But I’m gonna need a little personal time too. My wife’s been calling, and—”
Babbage emitted an electronic squeal.
“—What the?” Hank said.
“I needed to interrupt you,” Babbage said. “I may be able to help with your wife. She is on the way here—”
“She’s here, buddy. In the flesh. And she brought the—hey. How’d you know?”
“I asked her to come.”
“You—” Hank choked on words colliding with each other.
“I thought that since your son’s birthday was today, and you had no time to celebrate with him, you might hold your party in the first-class cabin on our way to Dallas.”
Hank squinted. It all made sense, but—!
“You’re serious,” he said.
“If you’re willing,” Babbage said.
Hank shook his head. He’d heard just about everything now.