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in, riding along right there."
The grimy thumb was now aiming at a transparent-walled cubicle that also
projected from the back of the truck. There was a padded seat inside, facing a shelf set with
thirteen buttons.
"You sit there, just as cozy as a bug in a rug I might say, ready to do your duty at any
given moment. Which is whenever one of the robots finds something it can't identify
straight off. So it puts whatever it is into the hopper outside your window. You give it a
good look, check the list for the proper category if you're not sure, then press the right
button and in she goes. It may sound difficult at first, but you'll soon catch onto the ropes."
"Oh, it sounds complicated all right," Carl said, with a dull feeling in his gut as he
climbed into his turret, "But I'll try and get used to it."
The weight of his body closed a hidden switch in the chair, and the truck growled
forward. Carl scowled down unhappily at the roadway streaming out slowly from behind
the wheels, as he rode into the darkness, sitting in his transparent boil on the back-side of
the truck.
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r r
It was dull beyond imagining. The garbage truck followed a programmed route that
led through the commercial and freightways of the city. There were few other trucks
moving at that hour of the night, and they were all robot driven. Carl saw no other human
being. He was mug as a bug. A human flea being whirled around inside the complex
machine of the city. Every few minutes the truck would stop, the robots clatter off, then
return with their loads. The containers dumped, the robots leaped back to their foot-
plates, and the truck was off once more.
An hour passed before he had his first decision to make. A robot stopped in mid-
dump, ground its gears a moment, then dropped a dead cat into Carl's hopper. Carl stared
at it with horror. The cat stared back with wide, sightless eyes, its lips drawn back in a
fierce grin. It was the first corpse Carl had ever seen. Something heavy had dropped on the
cat, reducing the lower part of its body to paper-thinness. With an effort he wrenched his
eyes away and jerked the book open.
Castings... Cast Iron.... Cats (dead)... Very, very much dead. There was the bin
number. Nine. One bin per life. After the ninth life-the ninth bin. He didn't find the
thought very funny. A fierce jab at button 9 and the cat whisked from sight with a last
flourish of its paw. He repressed the sudden desire to wave back.
After the cat boredom set in with a vengeance. Hours dragged slowly by and still his
hopper was empty. The truck rumbled forward and stopped. Forward and stop. The
motion lulled him and he was tired. He leaned forward and laid his head gently on the list
of varieties of garbage, his eyes closed.
"Sleeping is forbidden while at work. This is warning number one."
The hatefully familiar voice blasted from behind his head and he started with
surprise. He hadn't noticed the pickup and speaker next to the door. Even here, riding a
garbage truck to eternity, the machine watched him. Bitter anger kept him awake for the
duration of the round.
Days came and went after that in a gray monotony, the large calendar on the wall of
his room ticking them off one by one. But not fast enough. It now read 19 years, 322 days,
8 hours, 16 minutes. Not fast enough. There was no more interest in his life. As a
sentenced man there were very few things he could do in his free time. All forms of
entertainment were closed to him. He could gain admittance-through a side door-to only a
certain section of the library. After one futile trip there, pawing through the inspirational
texts and moral histories, he never returned.
Each night he went to work. After returning he slept as long as he could. After that
he just lay on his bed, smoking his tiny allotment of cigarettes, and listening to the seconds
being ticked off his sentence.
Carl tried to convince himself that he could stand twenty years of this kind of
existence. But a growing knot of tension in his stomach told him differently.
This was before the accident. The accident changed everything.
A night like any other night. The garbage truck stopped at an industrial site and the
robots scuffled out for their loads. Nearby was a cross-country tanker, taking on some
liquid through a flexible hose. Carl gave it bored notice only because there was a human
driver in the cab of the truck. That meant the cargo was dangerous in some way, robot
drivers being forbidden by law from handling certain loads. He idly noticed the driver
open the door and start to step out. When the man was halfway out he remembered
something, turned back and reached for it
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r r
For a short moment the driver brushed against the starter button. The truck was in
gear and lurched forward a few feet. The man quickly pulled away-but it was too late.
The movement had been enough to put a strain on the hose. It stretched-the
supporting arm bent-then it broke free from the truck at the coupling. The hose whipped
back and forth, spraying greenish liquid over the truck and the cab, before an automatic
cut-out turned off the flow.
This had taken only an instant. The driver turned back and stared with horror-
widened eyes at the fluid dripping over the truck's hood. It was steaming slightly.
With a swooshing roar it burst into fire, and the entire front of the truck was
covered with flame. The driver Invisible behind the burning curtain.
Before being sentenced Carl had always worked with robot assistance. He knew [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]