«Grass roots level opinion, very good, Captain, very good,» said the whiz kid. Summit ignored him.
«But I suppose I ought to tell you right now my recommendations will be negative. As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Reardon, you still have a long way to go with your machine.»
«But, I thought—»
«It did very well,» Summit said, «don’t get me wrong. But I think it’s going to need a lot more flexibility and more knowledge of the police officer’s duties before it can be of any real aid in our work.»
Reardon was angry, but trying to control it. «I programmed the entire patrolman’s manual, and all the City codes, and the Supreme Court—»
Summit stopped him with a raised hand. «Mr. Reardon, that’s the least of a police officer’s knowledge. Anybody can read a rule book. But how to use those rules, how to make those rules work in the street, that takes more than programming. It takes, well, it takes training. And experience. It doesn’t come easily. A cop isn’t a set of rules and a pile of wires.»
Polchik was startled to hear his words. He knew it would be okay. Not as good as before, but at least okay.
Reardon was furious now. And he refused to be convinced. Or perhaps he refused to allow the Mayor’s whiz kid and the FBI man to be so easily convinced. He had worked too long and at too much personal cost to his career to let it go that easily. He hung onto it. «But merely training shouldn’t put you off the X-44 completely!»
The Captain’s face tensed around the mouth. «Look, Mr. Reardon, I’m not very good at being politic—which is why I’m still a Captain, I suppose—» The whiz kid gave him a be-careful look, but the Captain went on. «But it isn’t merely training. This officer is a good one. He’s bright, he’s on his toes, he maybe isn’t Sherlock Holmes but he knows the feel of a neighborhood, the smell of it, the heat level. He knows every August we’re going to get the leapers and the riots and some woman’s head cut off and dumped in a mailbox mailed C.O.D. to Columbus, Ohio. He knows when there’s racial tension in our streets. He knows when those poor slobs in the tenements have just had it. He knows when some new kind of vice has moved in. But he made more mistakes out there tonight than a rookie. Five years walking and riding that beat, he’s never foulballed the way he did tonight. Why? I’ve got to ask why? The only thing different was that machine of yours. Why? Why did Mike Polchik foulball so bad? He knew those kids in that car should have been run in for b&b or naline tests. So why, Mr. Reardon … why?»
Polchik felt lousy. The Captain was more worked up than he’d ever seen him. But Polchik stood silently, listening; standing beside the silent, listening FBI man.
Brillo merely stood silently. Turned off.
Then why did he still hear that robot buzzing?
«It isn’t rules and regs, Mr. Reardon.» The Captain seemed to have a lot more to come. «A moron can learn those. But how do you evaluate the look on a man’s face that tells you he needs a fix? How do you gauge the cultural change in words like ‘custer’ or ‘grass’ or ‘high’ or ‘pig’? How do you know when not to bust a bunch of kids who’ve popped a hydrant so they can cool off? How do you program all of that into a robot … and know that it’s going to change from hour to hour?»
«We can do it! It’ll take time, but we can do it.»
The Captain nodded slowly. «Maybe you can.»
«I know we can.»
«Okay, I’ll even go for that. Let’s say you can. Let’s say you can get a robot that’ll act like a human being and still be a robot … because that’s what we’re talking about here. There’s still something else.»
«Which is?»
«People, Mr. Reardon. People like Polchik here. I asked you why Polchik foulballed, why he made such a bum patrol tonight that I’m going to have to take disciplinary action against him for the first time in five years … so I’ll tell you why, Mr. Reardon, about people like Polchik here. They’re still afraid of machines, you know. We’ve pushed them and shoved them and lumbered them with machines till they’re afraid the next clanking item down the pike is going to put them on the bread line. So they don’t want to cooperate. They don’t do it on purpose. They may not even know they’re doing it, hell, I don’t think Polchik knew what was happening, why he was falling over his feet tonight. You can get a robot to act like a human being, Mr. Reardon. Maybe you’re right and you can do it, just like you said. But how the hell are you going to get humans to act like robots and not be afraid of machines?»
Reardon looked as whipped as Polchik felt.
«May I leave Brillo here till morning? I’ll have a crew come over from the labs and pick him up.»
«Sure,» the Captain said, «he’ll be fine right there against the wall. The Desk Sergeant’ll keep an eye on him.» To Loyo he said, «Sergeant, instruct your relief.»
Loyo smiled and said, «Yessir.»
Summit looked back at Reardon and said, «I’m sorry.»
Reardon smiled wanly, and walked out. The whiz kid wanted to say something, but too much had already been said, and the Captain looked through him. «I’m pretty tired, Mr. Kenzie. How about we discuss it tomorrow after I’ve seen the Chief?»
The whiz kid scowled, turned and stalked out.
The Captain sighed heavily. «Mike, go get signed out and go home. Come see me tomorrow. Late.» He nodded to the FBI man, who still had not spoken; then he went away.
The robot stood where Reardon had left him. Silent.
Polchik went upstairs to the locker room to change.
Something was bothering him. But he couldn’t nail it down.
When he came back down into the muster room, the FBI man was just racking the receiver on the desk blotter phone. «Leaving?» he asked. It was the first thing Polchik had heard him say. It was a warm brown voice.
«Yeah. Gotta go home. I’m whacked out.»
«Can’t say I blame you. I’m a little tired myself. Need a lift?»
«No, thanks,» Polchik said. «I take the subway. Two blocks from the house.» They walked out together. Polchik thought about wet carpets waiting. They stood on the front steps for a minute, breathing in the chill morning air, and Polchik said, «I feel kinda sorry for that chunk of scrap now. He did a pretty good job.»
«But not good enough,» the FBI man added.
Polchik felt suddenly very protective about the inert form against the wall in the precinct house. «Oh, I dunno. He saved me from getting clobbered, you wanna know the truth. Tell me … you think they’ll ever build a robot that’ll cut it?»
The FBI man lit a cigarette, blew smoke in a thin stream, and nodded. «Yeah. Probably. But it’ll have to be a lot more sophisticated than old Brillo in there.»
Polchik looked back through the doorway. The robot stood alone, looking somehow helpless. Waiting for rust. Polchik thought of kids, all kinds of kids, and when he was a kid. It must be hell, he thought, being a robot. Getting turned off when they don’t need you no more.
Then he realized he could still hear that faint electrical buzzing. The kind a watch makes. He cast a quick glance at the FBI man but, trailing cigarette smoke, he was already moving toward his car, parked directly in front of the precinct house. Polchik couldn’t tell if he was wearing a watch or not.
He followed the government man.
«The trouble with Brillo,» the FBI man said, «is that Reardon’s facilities were too limited. But I’m sure there are other agencies working on it. They’ll lick it one day.» He snapped the cigarette into the gutter.
«Yeah, sure,» Polchik said. The FBI man unlocked the car door and pulled it. It didn’t open.
«Damn it!» he said. «Government pool issue. Damned door always sticks.» Bunching his muscles, he suddenly wrenched at it with enough force to pop it open. Polchik stared. Metal had ripped.