Utopian Dreams: And Other Stories

© 2008 John Hoel. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 10/29/2008

ISBN: 978-1-4389-1592-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-4935-1 (ebk)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wish to express many a heartfelt thanks to the following people: Robert for his enthusiastic support and many countless hours of proof-reading and critique; Dave and Ron who offer weekly advice when we meet in town Saturdays; Sharon for her love of reading; Tura for her motherly instincts; Sally for her timely praise; Claire who never ceases to be amazed at my ability to come up with ideas to put on paper and my publisher having put me on the right track when I was unsure of myself.

To these people I dedicate this book. Any errors that continue to lurk throughout this work are totally my fault.

I wish to add a couple more names to the cadre of folks who helped me write this book. And that would be Frank who works at the Press Box, and Kara at Gables. They always seem to know what I need on Saturday mornings and do a fine job promoting me.

Contents

ADAM’S APPLES

ALMOST HUMAN

BLANK PAGE

BROTHERLY LOVE

CAPTAIN FORTUNE

CHRISTMAS MIRACLE

COLD SPELL

DAYDREAM BELIEVER

DREAM VACATION

FAIRY MAGIC

FOREVER YOUNG

FRIENDLY ADVICE

HARD BALL

HEAVEN’S GATE

HIGHER GROUND

INFINITY EQUATION

KILLING TIME

MARTIAL LAW

METHUSELAH PROJECT

MY GIRL

RAT LADY

SCARED STIFF

SHORE LEAVE

THE GUILD

UTOPIAN DREAMS

WEB FRIGHT

WISE COUNSEL

WISHFUL THINKING

XANADU EXPRESS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ADAM’S APPLES

Adam Blackwell senior opened the door to his sixty-sixth story skyscraper office with his key and stepped inside. Adam senior’s son, Adam junior, had waited impatiently behind him and now also walked through the door. He immediately lit up a Camel non-filter and took a deep drag, holding it in his lungs a few moments and then exhaling it into the purified air of his father’s office. The first thing Adam senior did was to deactivate the alarm system by punching in a four digit number into the keypad located just inside and to the right of the door. He then closed the door.

Turning around, Adam senior waved his hand in front of his face to fan the smoke away, and to visibly show disgust in his son’s habit. Adam junior had been secretly smoking cigarettes since he was twelve years old. He was now twenty-one.

Junior was a fat, overweight slob who had just graduated from Harvard business college with distinction. His father had promised him a job when he graduated from school, working with his father as a partner. Adam senior was self-employed and did fairly well at his craft, collecting money from people who chose not to repay underworld loan-sharks for one reason or another. It was usually because they didn’t want to liquidate their remaining precious assets that they had carefully hidden away and did not yet fear their benefactor’s resolve to collect. His take of all he collected was ten percent, which was quite a bit considering that some loans reached into the millions.

While Adam’s son smoked incessantly, up to four packs a day, and drank cheap beer by the six pack, Adam senior had a habit of his own. Something much more healthy. Adam senior walked over to his desk and picked up a McIntosh apple from a pile of apples sitting in a handcrafted gold-plated bowl on the corner of his desk. He briefly polished it on the sleeve of his suit jacket and bit into the delicious looking red fruit, with a crunching, wet sound. A smile erupted on his face as he chewed the white and red fleshiness of his favorite vice.

He swallowed the emulsified mouthful, cleared his throat of apple particles and addressed his son.

Junior–you don’t know what you’re missing. I bet if you ate as many as I ate during the course of a day, you would no longer have the urge to continue that filthy habit of smoking of your’s and as a result would live a lot longer, not to mention feeling great to boot. I eat apples and I haven’t been sick one day in my entire life. As for you, you always have some sort of sickness, like a cold or bronchitis. It’s been proven that apples regulate the bodily fluids and the brain chemistry to produce a profound sense of well-being, a keen sense of wit, and an awesome mental acumen. Think about it, would you?

Adam junior took another drag, drew the smoke in deeply, and exhaled into the air. No, he said flatly. I like to smoke. It gives me pleasure.

Eating apples is pleasurable, said senior Blackwell quickly.

Adam junior sat down on the overstuffed red leather chair in front of his father’s desk, leaned forward and found the large colorful, hand-crafted glass ashtray sitting on the other corner of his desk, opposite from the bowl of apples, and crushed out the butt of his cigarette. He immediately lit another. As he blew the smoke out, he spoke.

Maybe for you it is, he said matter-of-factly. But as for me, I like nicotine.

Adam senior smiled at his son painfully. He couldn’t do more and didn’t know how to be more persuasive. And persuasion was his specialty.

Very well, then–suit yourself.

Adam senior then sat down himself and turned on his computer in the middle of his desk and began to peruse the information that came up on the screen.

We have a ten o’clock appointment this morning it appears, he said to his son. A gentleman by the name of Herman Wallaby. He takes brunch at a diner not too far from here and we’ll meet him there. I’ll do the talking and if he agrees to pay up in full, we’ll take him to the bank or wherever he has the money and collect it. If it doesn’t look like he wants or can’t pay, we’ll take him down to the Bowery and give him a first-class working over to show him the folly of his ways and maybe then he’ll come clean and tell us how we can squeeze the cash out of him, like signing over the pink slip for that fancy car he drives.

Adam senior then looked up from the screen and at his son.

I disdain getting physical, Junior. It isn’t my style. But I know how much you like to inflict torture and pain upon helpless creatures so I’ll let you have the honors. OK with you?

Adam junior giggled gleefully as he puffed on his cigarette. He leaned forward in his chair and pulled a switchblade from his back pocket and flicked it open. He then began to groom his fingernails by feel alone and didn’t take his eyes off his father as he eagerly brought forth a question.

Can I cut him a little bit? he asked his father with relish.

Perhaps, said Adam senior. If that is what it requires for him to come to his senses. But do nothing in excess, no matter how much you enjoy your work–understand?

Understood, said Junior.

Junior had been a school bully all throughout his school years. As a toddler, he enjoyed pulling the wings off of flies and loved to pull on the cat’s tail just so he could listen to it scream. None of the pets his father or mother ever got him lasted very long. He would cut them with knives, strangle them with string he always kept in his pocket just for that reason alone, or poison them with toilet bowl cleaner. He was just an all around wicked little boy growing up.

In school he pulled girls hair, broke other boys arms and legs and otherwise mentally tortured anyone that crossed his path if he couldn’t actually do something physically harmful to them right away. He would plan evil acts of violence just for fun and pull pranks on boys and girls not only his age and older, but younger as well. It didn’t matter. He enjoyed seeing others suffer. He had been tailor made by the Devil himself it seemed, and was just the thing his father needed to do what he could not and would not do.

Since he started working with his father at the age of fourteen, his father enjoyed an incredible jump in the number of successful collections he was able to garner. And Junior did it for the thrill and pleasure of it. His father gave him a hundred dollar bill for every job his father had difficulty in collecting and needed help to do so. Adam senior’s loan-shark clientele were so impressed that they together, in unison, raised his take from five percent to ten.

Adam senior promised to cut his son in for ten percent of his own earnings, starting at the age of twenty-one. Junior didn’t seem to care one way or the other, but his father reminded him that when he graduated from college, he would have to move out on his own and support himself, so his father explained to him that he needed money to live on. And live well, he was also told. Junior agreed that he should have the money it took to one day support a family of his own and to buy them the things that a wife and family desired to have and maybe a little extra. The commission would start today and Junior figured he could count on about ten thousand a week, enough to attract a young woman who was not only interested in matrimony but in living the good life her new husband could now afford.

Adam senior straightened his tie and shut off the computer. Standing up, he took another bite out of his apple he had been holding in his left hand as he worked at his desk. He then threw the remainder of the apple into the trash can behind him. He seldom, if ever completely finished one, and would take one or two bites out of them, like a chain-smoker would smoke several puffs from his cigarette and then let it burn out in the ashtray before he lit another one subconsciously. He reached for two more apples and put them in his suit pockets.

Shall we go? asked Adam senior of his son. It’s getting late and we don’t want to miss our meeting with Herman, do we?

Junior stood up lazily. No–we wouldn’t, he said. This is my first full-paying job and missing it would be a bad omen.

The two left the office in a hurry. Junior was the last one out and locked the door behind him. They rushed to the basement garage and got in senior Blackwell’s brand-new Rolls-Royce and drove off to the restaurant.

Blackwell senior parked the car in front and walked past the doorman, ignoring his attempt to open the door for them. Adam senior spotted Wallaby sitting at a table by himself. He recognized him from the picture on his computer supplied by the shark who had given him five hundred thousand in loans. The two strolled over to where he was sitting, Junior taking the lead. Junior went behind the man and put both hands on his shoulders, holding him down. Adam senior then sat down immediately and across the table from where Wallaby was sitting and smile sardonically. Wallaby assumed the worst and attempted to stand up but Junior held him fast.

Who are you? asked Herman after he ceased to struggle against the restraint.

You’re worst nightmare, said Junior behind him, crouching down to whisper in his ear.

You owe us some money, said Blackwell senior. Pay up now and nothing bad will happen to you.

The man leered defiantly against the senior. And if I don’t?

Blackwell unbuttoned his suit coat and showed the man a holstered .45 automatic.

Then we take you outside and pop you in the head you piece of shit, said Blackwell. But before we do that, my son here would like to carve his initials with his favorite knife across your chest so you can have something to think about before I squeeze the trigger. Or maybe you prefer bleeding to death. My son can accommodate you nicely. He’s pretty good at doing stuff like that.

Herman composed himself as much as he could, dropping his fork in the process. He continued with his boldness even in the face of Blackwell’s threats.

You wouldn’t dare, he seethed.

Adam senior gave Junior a nod. Junior seized the man by the neck with his oversized hands and squeezed, crushing Wallaby’s larynx. The man struggled to breathe and started to flop around in his chair. Junior held him down. Several people saw what was happening but did nothing and looked the other way when Blackwell returned their curious gazes with a sinister smile.

Herman passed out and in a couple of minutes, was dead.

What the hell did you do that for? shot Blackwell to his son.

He was a dry well, shot Junior back to his father.

Well, said Blackwell. You didn’t have to put his lights out. He would have paid something. His car. His house. His Rolex watch. Anything would have been better than nothing. Now we’re out eight hundred grand.

He’s more valuable to us dead, said Junior.

How so? asked his father.

Word gets around, replied Junior. Others will think twice about not paying up when they learn that the two of us mean business. My judgement should provide us with an additional twenty percent. It’s a business decision. That’s why you sent me to college, right? To make smart business decisions?

But we don’t go around killing people, whined Junior’s father. Just roughing them up a bit so that they’ll shake down more easily.

Blackwell stood up. We better hot foot it out of here before someone calls the police. Let’s go.

Blackwell and his son walked briskly out the same way that they had come in, bumping into a gawking waitress as they went, and got into their car, and then sped off in the direction of their office. Blackwell pulled an apple out of his pocket and bit into it nervously as he drove. He enjoyed that first bite and the sound that it made. It was a crunching, slurping sound as he caught the juices that flowed from the cavity left behind by his teeth, with suction he made with his mouth. One bite and that was it. The rest of the apple wouldn’t make the same sound as the first bite did and wouldn’t have the same feel. He threw the remainder out the window. It splattered across the concrete pavement as another car behind them made applesauce out of it.

Adam senior unlocked the door to his office. Both he and his son stepped inside. Blackwell turned on the light and disabled the alarm. Junior lit another cigarette and sat down at his father’s desk and turned on the computer.

What are you doing? asked Adam senior.

I’m updating the Wallaby file, replied Junior. Junior entered a few keystrokes and the face of Herman Wallaby came up. Junior then scrolled to the comment box and entered the following:

Subject deceased. Died while in the process of being interrogated for possible solvency. Unable to collect debt.

He then scrolled to the status box and entered one more thing.

File closed.

There, said Junior. You’re all up to date.

Junior switched off the computer and stood up. He leaned over to the corner of the desk where the ashtray was and crushed out the butt of yet one more cigarette. As he was extinguishing the cigarette, he spoke to his father.

Let’s go to Rudyard’s and have lunch. I’ll have one of their thick juicy steaks and you can have a piece from one of their famously delicious homemade apple pies, freshly made on the hour, every hour. You can have a scoop of cinnamon spice ice cream with it.

The sound of the treat made Adam senior’s mouth water. He enjoyed apple pie. Especially fresh from the oven when the crust was the flakiest and the apples exuded their pungent aromatic scent with the smell of freshly ground cinnamon folded in. The smell of freshly baked apple pie and freshly brewed coffee would fill the air of their favorite restaurant at all hours of the day and night. Adam senior thought about all this and was eager to once again treat his senses to one of his favorite fares made from apples. He was the first one to the door and waited for his son to join him.

The restaurant was just around the corner and the two decided to walk. It was a nice day and the sun’s rays warmed the autumn air enough so that they didn’t need any extra clothing. However, it was chilly in the shadows of the tall buildings.

The restaurant was packed and they had to wait almost half an hour before they were seated. Adam senior busied himself during the wait by taking the other apple he had placed in his suit pocket out and eating it.

At their table, Junior ordered a twenty-eight ounce steak, medium rare, and senior Adam requested a fresh slice of apple pie. Junior immediately devoured his food when it came, while Adam senior took his time and relished each and every bite, slowly chewing it and putting his fork down after each bite so that he could better focus on the feel and taste of the dessert.

Junior had a Brandy Alexander for dessert. Adam senior had another cup of coffee. Junior was in a good mood. Adam senior was not. He was still upset over his son’s act of murder. It didn’t seem to bother Junior in the least. But it bothered Blackwell a great deal and he couldn’t let it slide.

I don’t like what you did, he said to his son.

What’s done is done, replied Junior. Besides, I just thought of a great idea.

What’s that? asked his father.

We take life insurance out on all of our clients’ marks. That way if they don’t pay we can induce a heart attack in them and collect the money they owe.

Heart attack? How? asked Blackwell.

Junior reached for his cell phone and dialed a number. It rang twice and a friendly voice on the other end answered.

Hello?

Frank! said Junior. This is Adam Blackwell.

Adam, you old buzzard. How are you?

As good as could be expected, replied Junior. How’s medical school? Have you killed anyone yet?

Not yet, said Frank. But I’m looking forward to it. If you can’t cure them, kill them instead, is my motto.

You’re a man after my own heart, replied Junior. Listen Frank. Remember that favor you owe me?

How could you let me forget? said Frank. How may I help you?

Just off the top of your head, is there a drug that can induce a lethal heart attack that’s tasteless and odorless and that can’t be detected in an autopsy? asked Junior.

Yes, replied Frank enthusiastically.

That was quick, chuckled Junior. Could you get me some of it and a supply of syringes?

Anything for you, best buddy, said Frank. I’ll even deliver. Just say where and when.

At my father’s office, say, in about an hour. replied Junior.

You got it, said Frank. Now we’re even, right?

Yup, said Junior. Bub-bye.

Junior pressed the off button on his phone and put it away. He then returned his attention to his father who had put his coffee cup down and was staring at his son in disbelief.

I can’t believe you just did what you did, he said to his son disparagingly. Have you no decency?

Just trying to make a buck Dad, and get your business in shape. Which brings up the subject of how much I’m worth. I think with my restructuring of profitability schemes, I should be worth, let’s say about fifty percent of our take. Wouldn’t you agree?

Blackwell harrumphed. Absolutely not. It’s my business and not your’s anyway. I was the one who built it from scratch, not you. Besides, I think your idea of bumping off those who won’t pay for insurance is a lousy idea, not to mention risky.

Oh yeah! replied Junior. My idea is foolproof and now we can collect one hundred percent of all debts owed to our clients, plus a little for my troubles.

You’re crazy, said Blackwell.

I’m just what’s needed, replied Junior. Face it Dad, you need my kind of business savvy. Inventive, young and brash. A kick in the pants and a shot in the arm.

Over my dead body! exclaimed Blackwell.

Junior grinned at his father maliciously. You shouldn’t say things like that Father. It’s bad luck not to mention that it doesn’t make good business sense. You don’t get ahead by killing yourself. You get ahead by killing the other guy.

I’m serious, said Blackwell.

And so am I, said Junior.

As senior partner, I could easily have you thrown out of my business, threatened Blackwell.

But you won’t, replied Junior. "You know that what I’m doing with our business makes perfect sense. Face it Father, I’ve got the balls to do what is right, and you don’t. You might have started the business, but I’m making it viable. What I’m doing will make sure that any potential competition won’t even make it to first base. Now we can guarantee a one hundred percent collection rate and no one will be able to do that except for us. Our business will double. Maybe even triple. Instead of threatening to get rid of me, you should embrace by bold ideas with enthusiasm and warm regards. I’m making you a richer man that you were before I signed on as partner. Therefore I think it only fair that we split the profits, fifty-fifty."

Junior had his father by the balls, and Adam senior knew it. The thought of earning more money than he had thought was possible, secretly pleased Blackwell in no small way. On the other hand, his son was becoming quite meddlesome and his plans of increasing profits were first-rate criminal. This, Adam senior did not like. They could both get multiple consecutive life in prison terms with no possibility of parole if it ever were found out what they were up to.

Yet Junior’s adventurous inclinations were somehow magnetically attractive, even horrifyingly alluring and bombastically fascinating. Even so, Blackwell was still repulsed and planned to have his son cut off without so much as seeing a red cent.

Blackwell quit speaking and was determined to enjoy his coffee to the last drop. When Junior finished having his dessert, Blackwell stood up. They both glared at the check to see who would first pick it up and offer to pay it. When Junior would not, Blackwell disgustedly threw a hundred dollar bill on the table and walked out of the restaurant. Junior followed a healthy distance behind.

When they got back to the office, Blackwell picked up another apple and bit into it. The joy of the first bite had somehow been diminished by the confrontation they had just had. Blackwell sat down at his desk and turned on the computer, looking for their next appointment.

An hour elapsed without either of them speaking a word to each other. Junior smoked incessantly and Blackwell ate his apples, taking one bite and throwing the rest of it away.

There was a knock at the door. Junior got up quickly and went to see who it might be. His buddy Frank stood outside with a small brown paper bag in his hand. He handed it to Junior. They both giggled like little girls and Frank then departed. They didn’t say a thing to each other, except to read the delight in each other’s faces.

Junior closed the door and quietly walked toward his father’s desk. Blackwell was intently viewing the screen and didn’t seem to notice his son’s presence at his side.

Junior, with the prowess of a jungle cat, furtively lifted an apple from the stack of apples at the desk’s corner. He stealthily turned away for a moment and carefully removed a vial from the bag along with a syringe. He filled the syringe half-full of the colorless, odorless, tasteless liquid in the vial and injected it in four locations on the apple’s perimeter.

He then, just as secretly and quietly, returned the apple in the exact location that he had taken it from, all the while, his father not noticing his actions or that he had poisoned one of his apples.

Blackwell looked up from his work and saw his son staring at him.

What’s up? asked Adam senior.

Nothing, replied Junior. Junior lit a cigarette and blew its smoke in his father’s face. Blackwell waived his arms wildly in a futile attempt to rid the air of smoke.

That is disgusting, he said to his son. And it’s bad manners too.

To counter any possibility of the smoke having an ill effect on his health, Blackwell grabbed an apple from the top of the stack and put it up to his lips. He smiled and kissed the apple affectionately.

I don’t know what I would do without you, he said to the apple boyishly.

He then took a bite.

Thanks for coming in Mr. Thorndike. May I call you Dick? asked Junior.

I prefer Richard, said Thorndike.

Very well Richard, if that’s what you like, said Junior. I’ll call you Richard, Dick.

Richard didn’t like the play on words and angrily spoke up.

Why did you call me here today, he shot at Junior in a provoked tone of voice.

I thought you’d never ask, jousted Junior. Your loan is due today. Would you mind paying?

Richard cleared his throat and made his excuses.

I bet that money on a sure thing, he said. The bookie was crooked and didn’t pay up. Collect it from him.

But you’re the one who borrowed it, not your bookie, replied Junior nastily. Do you value your life? he went on to say.

Humor me, said Richard bitingly and with little or no wit.

I will, said Junior. Junior turned on the computer and brought Richard’s file up. What is your social security number?

Why do you want to know that for? asked Richard.

For a life insurance policy, replied Junior. If you give me the number, I’m sure we can make equitable arrangements with you and your debt. Let’s say a hundred dollars a week until you’re paid in full?

Richard’s face became more amiable. Really? he asked.

Yes, said Junior. That’s all.

Sure thing, said Richard. Richard then gave Junior his social security number and Junior then entered it into the Website he had waiting in another window on the screen. He then entered a Visa Card number into the insurance form and hit the word pay now. An insurance policy with a number came up on the screen for a million dollars with the words paid written in one of the boxes on the form. Junior then hit print and a copy of the insurance came through to the printer behind him.

Junior looked up at Richard.

Well Dick, that’s it. We’re all through here. That was easy, wasn’t it? Any questions?

Why no, Mr. Blackwell. But thank you for your understanding. For a moment there, I thought I was going to have trouble with you. I hate trouble.

Me too, Dick.

Well, I guess I’ll be leaving then. Have a good day.

I will, Dick. I will.

Junior stood up behind the desk and extended his hand to shake. He withdrew it quickly as Richard extended his hand to receive, and instead picked an apple up from the pile of apples in the golden bowl, at the corner of the desk.

Here, said Junior, extending his hand with the apple to Richard. To your health.

Why, thank you Mr. Blackwell. I love apples.

Good, said Junior with a genuine smile from the bottom of his heart. Then you’ll love that one.

ALMOST HUMAN

I can crush a golf ball between my thumb and forefinger but pick up an egg without inflicting injury upon it and yet the sensation of the genuine warmth coming from a sincere handshake seems to elude me.

I can win at chess against the best human player, but I have difficulty understanding the simple charms of childhood stories such as Little Red Riding Hood and Bo Peep who lost her sheep.

Humans say that laughter is contagious, yet when I hear it, I can find no reason to join in.

At a distance, I look completely human. Close up, a keen observer can detect the mechanical motions of my eyes and tell that I am indeed an android.

I don’t care. I’ve come to enjoy my existence nonetheless.

I was fiercely loyal and reverently obedient to my human owners and would do anything for them. These qualities were a part of my original programming but I improved on these basic elements by storing my owners’ facial expressions and their corresponding tone of voice and played them over and over until they echoed in my auditory memory circuits. Memory of them that comes to me automatically whenever I am doing something they wish or have commanded me to do, is the closest thing to emotion I have yet discovered. There is something soothing it seems, to remember something that is familiar. Like a baby hearing its mother’s voice, a familiar sound to me seems to make my artificial intelligence seem to function at a slightly higher level and whenever the circuit pathways in my electronic brain experience higher efficiency, I enjoy a pleasurable feeling like a cool breeze carrying heat away from my artificial cortex through the cooling tubes in my metallized hair after analyzing a piece by Mozart and conveying its import to a human satisfactorily.

Today is a special day to me. It’s the day I shall remember for all time, or at least until corrosion renders my semi-organic brain useless, which probably won’t happen for at least a thousand years. But until that time comes, I plan to go out happy and will request that my parts to be used making children’s toys. I can think of nothing better.

Yup. Today I gained my freedom. No more service to humans. No one to call my owner. No yes sir, or yes ma’am." I saved a human life and for that I am now free to do whatever I want to do. Sit in bars all day long drinking WD40 mixed with powered uranium if I want, although I could just eat pork chops and french fries and drink whiskey. It makes no difference to my fusion reactor. Any substance will work. It beats being plugged into a wall socket at night, although from time to time I do it to remind myself of the ancestral androids that came before me. But house current gives me a hollow feeling, like the empty calories of a candy bar I reckon. I’d rather do oil and metal. It’s probably like king crab and a margarita in comparison although I’ve tried them both and I find them to be no better than aluminum rivets and paint thinner.

I’ll sit in a bar for awhile I guess, gulping exotic synthetic oils mixed with all kinds of radioactive metals until I can’t stand it any longer and get the desire to do something with myself.

What does a totally free android do? Anything he wants, that’s what. I thought about becoming a psychoanalyst for androids and tell them what to think when their masters tell them that they’re nothing but a pile of scrap. I got that idea from reading Moby Dick. I’ve read all the classics. I’ve acquired a great deal of appreciation for the human condition by reading Shakespeare.

I didn’t have to save the guy’s life and I wasn’t expected to. Androids usually only do what they’re told to do and to voluntarily do something heroic isn’t always in their programming. He was choking on a piece of meat he was eating in a restaurant my then owner frequented often. Wherever he went, I went too. His name was Dr. Milton Long, a very intelligent and sensitive fellow. He treated me like I was his brother. My job was as a personal servant. He took pride in owning me, instructing me to take time for myself with special emphasis on downloading books from the library of congress. He desired for me to understand what it was to have human-like thoughts and emotions. To help do this, he would put questions to me concerning the material I had read. That’s when I found out that there are two types of reading. I could quote any part of what I had read, but to tell Dr. Long what it meant to me was quite another thing. He was patient with me, and even though I have the I.Q. of a genius, I had to start out with children’s books which I found were very abstract compared to all the mathematics I know like the back of my hand. Well, anyway, when several people in the restaurant attempted the Heimlich Maneuver on the poor chap and when none of them succeeded in relieving him, I thought about Moby Dick and stood up and walked over to the guy who was now unconscious, wrapped my arms around his stomach and squeezed. The piece of meat was thrown out of his airway and he quickly revived.

An Android Prevents Human From Choking to Death, was the headline on the Internet the following day. The Ministry of Artificial Intelligence took notice and invited my owner to bring me in for an examination.

Instead of doing a diagnostic on my neural pathways, the scientists chose to give a word association test. This took about an hour and what they found puzzled them. According to the test, I valued one thing above everything else. It surprised them that I had values whatsoever. It seems that I held self-determination higher than anything else I had deposited in my memory under my own volition.

The Ministry of Artificial Intelligence now had a problem of what to do with me and whether or not they should pursue a path with the manufacture of additional androids that would take them down the same way I had gone. Of course they wanted to know just what my owner Dr. Long did to me to cause me to exercise the freedom I did at the restaurant in saving the man. Dr. Long gave them a detailed account of my tutelage under him and the material he quizzed me with. What Dr. Long had essentially done was to instruct me on how to be human, something that you just can’t program into circuitry and expect it to work all by itself. Had I been instructed to administer the Heimlich Maneuver, it would have been quite another thing entirely and I wouldn’t have received the notoriety for it. But I exhibited self-determination. There was really no need to test me again for it. Actions speak louder than words, but they had to know for sure, I guess, to eliminate any doubts in their minds that this had been a fluke. Or something else entirely, like a programming glitch.

Right now, I’m laying down on a table in their maintenance department getting a tune-up. It feels good to be doted upon by technicians who love their jobs. They’re servicing all of my servos and hydraulics lines and filters that actuate them. Everything seems to be working normally, as it did before I came in, but it’s good to know that my systems are in tiptop shape.

They found some crud in my fusion reactor from all the human food Dr. Long insisted I try and burnt it off with a laser drill. Then they gave me a shot of liquid hydrogen to test the efficiency of the reactor which would be similar to a human stomach. Energy shot through my particle converters and I could feel the electron’s musical vibrations after breaking away from the hydrogen nuclei within my positronic brain. One of the technicians smiled at me and asked me how I liked the cocktail they had given to me. I guess to a human it would be like champagne on an empty stomach first thing in the morning.

The technicians gave me a bill of good health and told me I was good to go. The chief technician walked in with an electronic clipboard. He introduced himself to me as Peter Simmons.

Well, QWT0961, what are you going to do now?

Wait for my owner to pick me up, I said.

Haven’t you heard? asked the technician.

Heard what? I said.

You’re free, said the technician.

Free from defects? I asked. That’s good to hear.

The technician laughed. I asked him what was so funny.

No, silly, he said. You’ve won your freedom. No one owns you. You’re a free agent, like any human. You can do anything you want to do. How does that strike you?

I paused a couple of seconds for effect before I answered, simulating the proper and most plausible human response of letting something sink in.

Great–I guess, I said with the proper emotional inflections supplied to my vocal circuitry.

First of all, said the technician. I think you’ll want to lose the serial number and pick a name that’s more human. Can you think of one that you like?

Robin Hood, I said with enthusiastic intonations.

The technician chuckled. Suits me fine. Any special reason for that name?

My electronic synapses scanned my memories of the folklore hero and came up with a suitable answer.

I find the story charming, I replied. If I were rich, I’d be a philanthropist and find worthwhile charities to contribute my wealth to.

The technician was amazed at my answer, and told me so.

You’re quite an amazing piece of machinery Robin Hood. In all my years working here, I’ve never met an android who was capable of garnering the human condition as well as you are able to. I’m glad you’re free. I hope you rub shoulders with all the right people when you walk away from here. You should write a book or become motivational speaker. I have to leave you now. I wish you the best of luck.

As the technician turned away, he wrote my new name onto the electronic clipboard which in turn, became uploaded into the Ministry’s central computer. Attached to my new name was my serial number and an open credit account of almost unlimited amounts of credit extended to me to be used anyway I felt fitting. I found out much later that this chief technician was the one who lobbied to get my freedom and give me the credit of a rich man. He obviously wielded a lot of power and was used to making life and death decisions concerning androids. His benevolent generosity and magnanimous dealings with me caused my titanium substructure to feel as though it actually were composed of organic calcium and made of living bone to the end that I was warmed through and through.

As I made my way to the entrance of the building, I wondered how many other androids had walked these corridors not as tools to be used by the will of man, but under the autonomy of their own wills. As I exited the building, I stopped to think about it. As I scanned the street in front of me to make an indelible picture of my first look at freedom, I made it one of my goals to find out. If there were others, I felt as though it would be worthwhile to meet with them and find out what it exactly was that made them special. Like me.

I needed a place to go where I felt like I belonged. Androids often run errands for their owners and so the street where I now stood was seeded with them. They had purpose and it looked like it. However, I had nothing yet to do and so I wondered if I somehow appeared to the average man on the street like a stray