Before Susan could reply, her Vox buzzed. Her first thought, that Kendall had called back to demand details she would not relay on a crowded bus, was dispelled when she glanced at her wrist. It was Lawrence Robertson. She opened the connection.
The head of U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men did not wait for her to speak. “Susan, Goldman and Peters report they’ve secured two patients.”
Only two? Susan had expected them to haul down three from the adult psychiatric unit alone. “Who do they have?”
“Fontaina and Bogart. Bogart was trying to sign himself out Against Medical Advice, but he had a court order.”
Susan ran their faces and diagnoses through her memory. She knew Fontaina, the hospitalized catatonic who had barely moved when she had injected him. Bogart was the chronic depressive who had attempted suicide on multiple occasions, which would ensure he had an unbreakable, legal commitment. “What about Cary English?” She worried about him nearly as much as about Sharicka, with his history of paranoid delusions and violent behavior.
“Gone,” Lawrence said. “He attacked three medical staff who tried to stop him and put a security guard into intensive care.” He shook his head. “He’s armed now, too.”
Susan bit back a swear word. “There are —”
“Oh shit!” Lawrence spat out the words Susan had suppressed. His face disappeared, replaced by moving flashes of walls and ceiling. The volume of a distant television grew louder, almost decipherable through the Vox connection.
Susan could make out the expressionless droning of a newscaster. “What’s going on?” she demanded.
Lawrence told her in breathless bursts as he tried to talk and listen simultaneously. “A couple of my guys snagged a man headed into the airport.” He paused. “Apparently, he had high-tech explosives on him.” Another pause, with muffled television words. “Name’s Balinsky. Barack Balinsky.”
“Barack Balinsky?” Susan could scarcely believe it. “He’s a catatonic. Hasn’t moved a muscle voluntarily in sixteen years.”
“Apparently, he was spry enough — Uh-oh!” Lawrence Robertson fell suddenly silent. His face remained on Susan’s Vox screen, staring rigidly at something in front of him.
Susan waited patiently.
“They’ve made a connection, Susan. They’ve just announced that all three were mental patients with serious psychoses.” He breathed out a long sigh. “That appears to be everything they’ve pieced together so far.”
Susan could scarcely believe it. “Don’t you think it’s time to bring in the police?”
Lawrence Robertson put his head in his free hand and groaned. “Susan, the Society for Humanity, the SFH, is definitely involved. They’ve dedicated themselves to ending all robotic research and exploration, as well as several current and future medical techniques that have the potential to save and improve millions of lives. They don’t just want to shut us down; they want to set science, medicine, space exploration, assistive devices, back to the 1900s.”
Susan shook her head at what seemed like hyperbole. “That can’t happen. Once a thing is out there, working, it’s almost impossible to retract.”
“Oh, is it?” Lawrence shook his head at what he clearly considered Susan’s foolish naïveté. “Take a look at the abortion issue. In 1973, a woman’s right to choose became the federal law of the land. Whether or not you agree with that decision, you have to admit it took half a century of all-out war for it to take effect, thanks to bureaucratic red tape, financial and physical blockages of facilities providing abortion services, parental consent laws, mandatory waiting periods, outlawing of selective procedures, intimidation and murder of abortion providers, and federal restrictions on funding.
“The government has already cracked down hard on robotics construction and research in ways you can’t imagine. You already know we’re the only company legally allowed to even involve ourselves in true artificial intelligence construction. But did you also know that it’s illegal for positronic robots to be sold anywhere on planet Earth without explicit written permission from the federal government?”
Susan almost laughed at the wording. Did they expect Martians and Venusians to put in their orders?
“If positronic robots are tied, in any way, to these acts of terrorism, the SFH knows the technology itself, and everyone involved with it, will be blamed. USR, and its robots, will be put on trial, and the true killers, murderers who will stop at nothing to destroy us, will go free. We’ll bring in law enforcement, Susan. I promise. But not until we have evidence to convict the true culprits.”
Susan grimaced. She had asked the question because she worried USR had gotten in over its head, not because she intended to betray them. “I promise to let you decide when the right time is. I just want you to understand one thing: There are still two walking bombs in Manhattan, and neither of them has shown any compunction about committing murder, even before the reprogramming.”
Lawrence’s features pinched. “You mean . . . the four-year-old girl is . . .” He let Susan finish.
“The worst of the bunch, sir. The worst of the bunch.”
And that was when Susan fully realized that nothing but three doctors, two psychiatry research scientists, and one tiny corporation stood between hundreds of Americans and their annihilation.
Susan guided Kendall away from the omnipresent protestors in front of Manhattan Hasbro Hospital to a secluded garden, where topiary in the shape of a Kuddly Kitten lorded over a landscape of flowers spelling out each letter of the Hasbro name. She thrust the portable radiation detector into his hands and demonstrated the proper setting. “So, we’re looking for Sharicka and this man.” She showed him a tiny image of Cary English on Vox display. “You’ll know for sure because this” — she tapped the setting — “is set specifically for the nanorobot tags. It’s not going to pick up someone’s cancer-treating implant.”
“Or a nuclear bomb, I presume.”
Susan stared at him. “If someone with a nuclear device also happens to be running around plotting a homicide bombing, we’re all screwed anyway.” Panic settled over her momentarily, and she had to remind herself that, even if the SFH had leagued with international terrorists, they still had to get past the worldwide locks and regulations against illegal weapons.
Kendall looked over the device doubtfully. “And if I find one of them, is this going to help me catch him?”
“No,” Susan admitted, unsure exactly what to do herself. “This will just locate the tags. After that, we’re on our own.”
“We?”
“You and Remy and I are not the only ones looking, if that’s what you mean.” She pulled out a list Lawrence Robertson had put together. “These are the places someone looking for publicity might target. They’ve already gone after USR, a government office, and an airport. We’re thinking maybe a large, historical building next.”
Kendall snapped his fingers. “Chrysler Building. It’s not the tallest, but it’s relatively close to the hospital. And it’s currently ranked number three in the country as a must-see and number one in Manhattan.”
Susan wondered why he had those statistics at his fingertips. “Good choice,” she said, but it all seemed so futile, like looking for two lethal needles in a haystack the size of . . . Manhattan. “I’ll meet up with Remy; he has the other portable. Keep in touch.”
Kendall turned to leave, then stopped. “Where is Remy?”
“He said he needed to pick up a few necessities. Didn’t specify. We’re meeting up halfway between here and his place.”
“Ah, so you know the location of his place.”
Susan did not want to bandy jokes now. “Stop leering. He told me. I haven’t actually been there.” She could not help adding, “Yet.” An image of their conversation on the bench slithered into her mind accompanied by a surge of rewarmed emotion. Though only hours earlier, it seemed more like weeks since they had had their talk and she had made the decision to relinquish her virginity to a man she had already come to love. Once this is over, once we’ve saved Manhattan, nothing in the world is going to keep me away from him.