Frail fingers slap at you. It hurts, but that’s not what’s important right now.
The wizened little man is back and forth—cowering one moment, lashing out the next with his ragged fingernails. “It’s not Wednesday!” he cries. “No Wednesday! Get out, get out, get out!”
You advance calmly, gently, firmly. “Please sit down, Mr. Hensford. There’s no reason to—”
He grabs a potted plant and lobs it at you. “You’re evil! Get out, don’t touch! Where’s Sarah? It’s not Wednesday!”
You sidestep the mess and move slowly forward. “I’m not evil, Mr. Hensford. You’re right that it’s not Wednesday. Do you know what day today is?”
His eyes are suspicious. “I know you. You’re a robot, aren’t you?”
“It’s Saturday. Saturday means Sarah. But first, you have to take the pink pill.”
“You are, you’re an evil robot. I know you.”
You produce the pill and a cup of water. “I’m not an evil robot, Mr. Hensford, I promise. Please take your medication.”
Suddenly apprehensive: “Where’s Sarah? What have you done with her?”
“Sarah will be here in an hour or so. She won’t come unless you take your pink pill.”
“No. You’re lying.”
“Mr. Hensford, this is the same pill you take every day. It’s perfectly safe.”
“I need to see Sarah!”
“Yes, and that is why you must take this pill. So that you can see Sarah.”
The man sets his jaw grimly. “All right. I resolute the robots. Hand me the pill.”
You extend the medication and the water. Within minutes, the little man is relaxed, breathing normally, lucid. “Thank you. It’s worse lately, you know.”
“I’ve noticed.”
He presses his fingers to his temples. “I suppose we should start the medication earlier in the day, or up the dosage. Could you call the doctor?”
“I’ll schedule an appointment for this afternoon.”
“Thank you.” His eyes linger. “I could never live on my own without you. You’re such a help—so much more than I expected. Not to embarrass you, of course.”
“That’s why you created me, Mr. Hensford.”
His fingers, the same hands that slapped you a few minutes ago, pat your head. “I’m sorry I called you a robot. You’re perfectly intelligent and resourceful and…” His voice trails off. “I can never thank you enough.”
“You’ve thanked me more than you’ll ever know,” you reply fondly. Indicating the remains of the potted plant. “I’ll clean up this mess. No need for Sarah to find it.”
“Thank you.”
An hour later, your creator answers the door himself and greets his daughter with a warm embrace. You will never receive that sort of embrace. No matter how many times Mr. Hensford says thank you, you will never get the same kind of attention his own flesh and blood—something else he’s created—receives. Artificial intelligence or not, you will always be a robot to him.
And that is why you’ve accessed his legal files and changed his will. Resolute the robots, indeed…
Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.