hadn’t been hypnosis then! Liz was for real. A vision rose before Montcalm of mankind given wonders, powers, benefits representing advances of thousands of years. The world could become a paradise with the things she offered to teach.
“Millie, this woman is from another planet!” he exclaimed excitedly, and turned to Liz. “Why did you choose me to contact on Earth?”
“Why, I happened to land near your house,” she answered. “I know how your primitive social organization is set up, but isn’t one human being just as good as another to lead me to the proper authorities?”
“Yes,” he said joyfully, visualizing black headlines and his picture in the papers.
Millie stood to one side, puzzled and grim at once. Montcalm picked up the house dress he had taken from the closet earlier.
“Now, Miss,” he said, “if you’ll just put this on, I’ll take you to the mayor and he can get in touch with Washington at once.”
“I told you,” said Liz, “I don’t want to adopt your custom of wearing clothing.”
“But you can’t go out in public like that!” said the dismayed Montcalm. “If you’re going to move among Earth people, you must dress as we do.”
“My people wouldn’t demand that Earth people disrobe to associate with us,” she countered reasonably.
Millie had had enough. She went into action.
“You can argue with this hussy all you like, Richard, but I’m going to call the police,” she said, and left the room with determination in her eye.
The next fifteen minutes were agonizing for Montcalm as he tried futilely to get Liz to dress like a decent person. He was torn between realization of what the things she offered would mean to the world and his own sense of the fitness of things. His children, the children of Traskmore, the children of the world…what would be the effect on their tender morals to realize that a sane adult was willing to walk around in brazen nakedness?
There was a pounding on the front door, and the voice of Millie inviting the law into the house.
“Now I’m afraid you’re due to go to jail,” said Montcalm mournfully. “But when they get some clothes on you, I’ll try to explain it and get you an audience with the mayor.”
Two blue-clad policemen entered the room.
One policeman took the house dress from Montcalm’s lax fingers and tossed it over Liz’ head without further ado.
Liz did not struggle. She looked at Montcalm with a quizzical expression.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “My people made a mistake. If you Earth people aren’t tolerant enough to accept a difference in customs of dress, I’m afraid you’re too immature.”
With that, she was gone like a puff of air. The astonished policemen held an empty dress.
Montcalm didn’t see the flying saucer that whizzed over Traskmore that morning and disappeared into the sky, but he didn’t doubt the reports. He debated with himself for a long time whether he had taken the right attitude, but decided he had.
After all, there were the children to consider.
I, ROBOT, by Cory Doctorow
Arturo Icaza de Arana-Goldberg, Police Detective Third Grade, United North American Trading Sphere, Third District, Fourth Prefecture, Second Division (Parkdale) had had many adventures in his distinguished career, running crooks to ground with an unbeatable combination of instinct and unstinting devotion to duty.
He’d been decorated on three separate occasions by his commander and by the Regional Manager for Social Harmony, and his mother kept a small shrine dedicated to his press clippings and commendations that occupied most of the cramped sitting-room of her flat off Steeles Avenue.
No amount of policeman’s devotion and skill availed him when it came to making his twelve-year-old get ready for school, though.
“Haul ass, young lady—out of bed, on your feet, shit-shower-shave, or I swear to God, I will beat you purple and shove you out the door jaybird naked. Capeesh?”
The mound beneath the covers groaned and hissed. “You are a terrible father,” it said. “And I never loved you.” The voice was indistinct and muffled by the pillow.
“Boo hoo,” Arturo said, examining his nails. “You’ll regret that when I’m dead of cancer.”
The mound—whose name was Ada Trouble Icaza de Arana-Goldberg—threw her covers off and sat bolt upright. “You’re dying of cancer? is it testicle cancer?” Ada clapped her hands and squealed. “Can I have your stuff?”
“Ten minutes, your rottenness,” he said, and then his breath caught momentarily in his breast as he saw, fleetingly, his ex-wife’s morning expression, not seen these past twelve years, come to life in his daughter’s face. Pouty, pretty, sleepy and guile-less, and it made him realize that his daughter was becoming a woman, growing away from him. She was, and he was not ready for that. He shook it off, patted his razor-burn and turned on his heel. He knew from experience that once roused, the munchkin would be scrounging the kitchen for whatever was handy before dashing out the door, and if he hurried, he’d have eggs and sausage on the table before she made her brief appearance. Otherwise he’d have to pry the sugar-cereal out of her hands—and she fought dirty.
* * * *
In his car, he prodded at his phone. He had her wiretapped, of course. He was a cop—every phone and every computer was an open book to him, so that this involved nothing more than dialing a number on his special copper’s phone, entering her number and a PIN, and then listening as his daughter had truck with a criminal enterprise.
“Welcome to ExcuseClub! There are 43 members on the network this morning. You have five excuses to your credit. Press one to redeem an excuse—” She toned one. “Press one if you need an adult—” Tone. “Press one if you need a woman; press two if you need a man—” Tone. “Press one if your excuse should be delivered by your doctor; press two for your spiritual representative; press three for your case-worker; press four for your psycho-health specialist; press five for your son; press six for your father—” Tone. “You have selected to have your excuse delivered by your father. Press one if this excuse is intended for your case-worker; press two for your psycho-health specialist; press three for your principal—” Tone. “Please dictate your excuse at the sound of the beep. When you have finished, press the pound key.”
“This is Detective Arturo Icaza de Arana-Goldberg. My daughter was sick in the night and I’ve let her sleep in. She’ll be in for lunchtime.” Tone.
“Press one to hear your message; press two to have your message dispatched to a network-member.” Tone.
“Thank you.”
The pen-trace data scrolled up Arturo’s phone—number called, originating number, call-time. This was the third time he’d caught his daughter at this game, and each time, the pen-trace data had been useless, a dead-end lead that terminated with a phone-forwarding service tapped into one of the dodgy offshore switches that the blessed blasted UNATS brass had recently acquired on the cheap to handle the surge of mobile telephone calls. Why couldn’t
