He looked out through the wirework of the bullpen at Reardon. «Why do you call it Brillo?»
Reardon hesitated a moment, trying desperately to remember the whiz kid’s first name. He was an engineer, not a public relations man. Universal Electronics should have sent Wendell down with Brillo. He knew how to talk to these image-happy clowns from City Hall. Knew how to butter and baste them so they put ink to contract. But part of the deal when he’d been forced to sell Reardon Electronics into merger with UE (after the stock raid and the power grab, which he’d lost) was that he stay on with projects like Brillo. Stay with them all the way to the bottom line.
It was as pleasant as clapping time while your wife made love to another man.
«It’s … a nickname. Somebody at UE thought it up. Thought it was funny.»
The whiz kid looked blank. «What’s funny about Brillo?»
«Metal fuzz,» the Police Chief rasped.
Light dawned on the whiz kid’s face, and he began to chuckle; Reardon nodded, then caught the look of animosity on the Police Chief’s face. Reardon looked away quickly from the old man’s fiercely seamed features. It was getting more grim, much tenser.
Captain Summit came slowly down the stairs to join them. He was close to Reardon’s age, but much grayer. He moved with one hand on the banister, like an old man.
Why do they all look so tired? Reardon wondered. And why do they seem to look wearier, more frightened, every time they look at the robot? Are they afraid it’s come around their turn to be replaced? Is that the way I looked when UE forced me out of the company I created?
Summit eyed the robot briefly, walked over and sat down on the bench several feet apart from the silent FBI man. The whiz kid came out of the bullpen. They all looked at Summit.
«Okay, I’ve picked a man to work with him … it, I mean.» He was looking at Reardon. «Mike Polchik. He’s a good cop; young and alert. Good record. Nothing extraordinary, no showboater, just a solid cop. He’ll give your machine a fair trial.»
«That’s fine. Thank you, Captain,» Reardon said.
«He’ll be right down. I pulled him out of the formation. He’s getting his gear. He’ll be right down.»
The whiz kid cleared his throat. Reardon looked at him. He wasn’t tired. But then, he didn’t wear a uniform. He wasn’t pushed up against what these men found in the streets every day. He lives in Darien, probably, Frank Reardon thought, and buys those suits in quiet little shops where there’re never more than three customers at a time.
«How many of these machines can your company make in a year?» the whiz kid asked.
«It’s not my company any more.»
«I mean the company you work for—Universal.»
«Inside a year: we can have them coming out at a rate of a hundred a month.» Reardon paused. «Maybe more.»
The whiz kid grinned. «We could replace every beat patrolman …»
A spark-gap was leaped. The temperature dropped. Reardon saw the uniformed men stiffen. Quickly, he said, «Police robots are intended to augment the existing force.» Even more firmly he said, «Not replace it. We’re trying to help the policeman, not get rid of him.»
«Oh, hey, sure. Of course!» the whiz kid said, glancing around the room. «That’s what I meant,» he added unnecessarily. Everyone knew what he meant.
The silence at the bottom of the Marianas Trench.
And in that silence: heavy footsteps, coming down the stairs from the second-floor locker rooms.
He stopped at the foot of the stairs, one shoe tipped up on the final step; he stared at the robot in the bullpen for a long moment. Then the patrolman walked over to Captain Summit, only once more casting a glance into the bullpen. Summit smiled reassuringly at the patrolman and then gestured toward Reardon.
«Mike, this is Mr. Reardon. He designed—the robot. Mr. Reardon, Patrolman Polchik.»
Reardon extended his hand and Polchik exerted enough pressure to make him wince.
Polchik was two inches over six feet tall, and weighty. Muscular; thick forearms; the kind found on men who work in foundries. Light, crewcut hair. Square face, wide open; strong jaw, hard eyes under heavy brow ridges. Even his smile looked hard. He was ready for work, with a .32 Needle Positive tilt-stuck on its velcro fastener at mid-thigh and an armament bandolier slanted across his broad chest. His aura keyed one word: cop.
«The Captain tells me I’m gonna be walkin’ with your machine t’night.»
Nodding, flexing his fingers, Reardon said, «Yes, that’s right. The Captain probably told you, we want to test Brillo under actual foot patrol conditions. That’s what he was designed for: foot patrol.»
«Been a long time since I done foot patrol,» Polchik said: «Work a growler, usually.»
«Beg pardon?»
Summit translated. «Growler: prowl car.»
«Oh. Oh, I see,» Reardon said, trying to be friendly.
«It’s only for tonight, Mike,» the Captain said. «Just a test.»
Polchik nodded as though he understood far more than either Reardon or Summit had told him. He did not turn his big body, but his eyes went to the robot. Through the grillwork Brillo (with the sort of sound an electric watch makes) buzzed softly, staring at nothing. Polchik looked it up and down, slowly, very carefully. Finally he said, «Looks okay to me.»
«Preliminary tests,» Reardon said, «everything short of actual field runs … everything’s been tested out. You won’t have any trouble.»
Polchik murmured something.
«I beg your pardon?» Frank Reardon said.
«On-the-job-training,» Polchik repeated. He did not smile. But a sound ran through the rest of the station house crew.
«Well, whenever you’re ready, Officer Polchik,» the whiz kid said suddenly. Reardon winced. The kid had a storm-window salesman’s tone even when he was trying to be disarming.
«Yeah. Right.» Polchik moved toward the front door. The robot did not move. Polchik stopped and turned around. Everyone was watching.
«I thought he went on his own, uh, independ’nt?»
They were all watching Reardon now.
«He’s been voice-keyed to me since the plant,» Reardon said. «To shift command, I’ll have to prime him with your voice.» He turned to the robot. «Brillo, come here, please.»
The word please.
The buzzing became more distinct for a moment as the trunnions withdrew inside the metal skin. Then the sound diminished, became barely audible, and the robot stepped forward smoothly. He walked to Reardon and stopped.
«Brillo, this is Officer Mike Polchik. You’ll be working with him tonight. He’ll be your superior and you’ll be under his immediate orders.» Reardon waved Polchik over. «Would you say a few words, so he can program your voice-print?»
Polchik looked at Reardon. Then he looked at the robot. Then he looked around the muster room. Desk Sergeant Loyo was grinning. «Whattaya want me to say?»
«Anything.»
One of the detectives had come down the stairs. No one had noticed before. Lounging against the railing leading to the squad room upstairs, he giggled. «Tell him some’a your best friends are can openers, Mike.»
The whiz kid and the Chief of Police threw him a look. Summit said, «Bratten!» He shut up. After a moment he went back upstairs. Quietly.
«Go ahead. Anything,» Reardon urged Polchik.
The patrolman drew a deep breath, took another step forward and said, self-consciously, «Come on, let’s go. It’s gettin’ late.»
The soft buzzing (the sort of sound an electric watch makes) came once again from somewhere deep inside the robot. «Yes, sir,» he said, in the voice of Frank Reardon, and moved very smoothly, very quickly, toward Polchik. The patrolman stepped back quickly, tried to look casual, turned and started toward the door of the station house once more. The robot followed.