Make Mine a Double

by Bill Bowler

conclusion

The Police Department was on full alert but increasingly hard pressed to provide adequate security for His Honor. The visibility of the mayor’s position and his frequent exposure to the public had made him an easy target for the Mob enforcers. Worst-case scenarios had to be prepared for and all protective and preventive measures had to be taken.

It was the Deputy Mayor for Emergency Services, whose wife had bought a double to make a fourth for her weekly bridge game at the club, who had first realized the potential security applications of the technology. After consultation with the Chief of Police, the Deputy Mayor had suggested to His Honor the wisdom of having duplicates of himself distributed at various locations around the city to confuse any potential hit men.

It was a shell game. Keep them guessing. No one, aside from the mayor’s inner circle, need ever know the mayor’s actual whereabouts, as two, or even three or more separate locations could be reported simultaneously. The mayor was skeptical but allowed himself to be persuaded to fund a pilot program of one double to determine the feasibility and effectiveness of the program.

Metro Robots took the order for the duplicate mayor in strictest confidence. Three weeks later, the mayor was covered on live TV, simultaneously, at the opening season gala of the Metropolitan Opera, and at City Hall, in emergency session with his closest lieutenants, racing to meet the annual city budget deadline.

Questions raised by reporters as to what exactly was going on and why were referred by the mayor’s press secretary as “matters of municipal security” to the chief of police, who had no comment.

Organized crime, hit hard by the city’s vigorous enforcement of the zero tolerance policy, had put the word out that the mayor had to go. Like the mayor’s office and everyone else, criminals and their confederates had also seen the sets of android celebrities and doubles around town and drawn their own conclusions. In case of murder, just to take one example, what better way to establish the perfect alibi?

Harry remembered the day well, some weeks later, when the furtive and secretive customer had come to the showroom to inquire about a double. The customer kept his hat down, his collar up, and his face hidden until Harry brought him into the back office, where he took off his hat and overcoat, and sat down.

The gentleman was immaculately dressed in a black suit and brilliant, starched white shirt with a stiff collar. He was medium height, fit and muscular, and straight as a ramrod, apparently ex-military. The man’s broad shoulders and bulging biceps strained the seams of his jacket sleeve. His hair was crew cut, salt and pepper. He sat in Harry’s office, but turned the chair so his back was to the wall and he could keep an eye on the store entrance, as if he were expecting something unpleasant to come through the door.

But most of all, Harry noticed the man’s fierce eyes — hard set, cold and emotionless. Harry got the feeling it would be a good idea not to upset the gentleman, even better to avoid eye contact, in fact, best to avoid being noticed at all as the gentleman gave the impression that, though it might not exactly have given him pleasure (perhaps nothing gave him pleasure), he was perfectly capable of breaking every bone in Harry’s body, if circumstances called for it.

Harry decided to listen quietly and politely, take the gentleman’s order, and not to ruffle feathers, interrupt, contradict, excite, or annoy the gentleman in any way, if at all possible.

“I’ve just come from Universal Robots,” said the gentleman.

“Oh, my,” said Harry. “Well, you’ll do much better here with us.”

“I had an unpleasant exchange with the sales manager at Universal,” the man continued. “They refused to implant my personality into one of their androids, a Frank Sinatra.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Harry. “Their workmanship is inferior in every way and their service is appalling. But the best means to embody your own fine qualities in a robot, whatever qualities they may be, is to special order one of our android doubles. You’ll have an exact duplicate of yourself in all respects.”

“Does it have to look like me?”

“If you want to embed your own personality, then it’s best to order the complete package, yes.”

It was a cash transaction. Ten days, and the man returned to Metro Robots to take delivery of his android double.

Again, the man sought privacy and discretion. Harry took him into the back office, where the gentleman looked his double up and down, circled around it, examined it closely, gazed intently at it for a moment or two. It was a perfect match, except the man seemed, if anything, colder and harder than the machine.

“You’re sure these things work?” the man had asked Harry quietly and intensely.

“Satisfaction guaranteed,” said Harry. “Six months warranty on parts and labor, but you won’t have any problem. These units are pre-tested and factory inspected.”

“I hope you’re right,” the man said quietly, “because, if you’re not, it could put me — and you — in a very awkward position.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” said Harry with a weak attempt at a smile and the distinct feeling that the conversation was heading in the wrong direction. “But don’t worry. Nothing will go wrong with this android. You have Metropolitan Robots’ money back guarantee. And if any, um, questions come up for any reason, you come and see us. It doesn’t have to be me, any account executive will do, and we’ll take care of it.”

“I will,” said the man, in a whisper so soft that Harry was not sure he had even heard it.

The gentleman and his android double, with hats down and collars up, went out to the street and disappeared, never, Harry dearly hoped and wished, to be seen again.

A week later, to the day, the well dressed, salt and pepper haired gentleman was having dinner with a boisterous party of six at a downtown restaurant on Mulberry St. The gentleman was a regular at the restaurant, and sat with his back to the wall at his usual table in the far corner facing the door.

The owner of the restaurant knew his customer well and poured his most expensive wine; the waiters and busboys swarmed his table; they knew him for his generous tipping; even the chef came out of the kitchen to say hello and make sure the gentleman had enjoyed his rognoni paisano and his party was satisfied.

Around 11:00 p.m., at the time when the gentleman and his party were having sorbet and sipping espresso, uptown on the East Side, a muscular figure was climbing over the high, wrought-iron fence that surrounded the grounds of the mayor’s mansion.

The figure dropped lithely to its feet inside the grounds. It was a close-cropped, salt and pepper haired, muscular Metro Robots android. It crouched and crept forwards in the shadows towards the mayor’s mansion.

It reached a flower bed beneath an open window from which a dim light shone. The masked android looked in. The mayor sat at a desk in his study, speaking to someone on the phone, his back towards the window.

The android drew a pistol with a suppressor, took aim, and fired. His Honor dropped the phone and crumpled forward onto the desk. The android fired again, to make sure the job was done, then ducked down into the bushes and crept back through the shadows towards the iron fence.

The next day, it was all over the news. Video surveillance cameras on the grounds of the mayor’s mansion had recorded footage of an armed intruder and an attempt on the Mayor’s life. Thank God the Mayor was unharmed, although a security android had been severely damaged. Still, the charge was attempted murder. The footage was low quality, poorly lit and grainy. It was difficult to make out the intruder’s features as he moved in and out of the shadows. But Harry watched and seemed to recognize a familiar figure, medium build, muscular, with close cropped hair. Oh my God! thought Harry. It can’t be!

With video stills splashed on the front pages of the city’s newspapers and the surveillance footage broadcast on all the local TV news programs, the hit man realized there was only one person who could challenge his otherwise airtight alibi.

It was early evening, the following day. Metropolitan Robots was closed, but Harry had stayed late to close out the books. The showroom was dark and deserted, but Harry worked in his back office, under the circle of light from the lamp on his desk. He was studying the figures. The red ink had turned to black. Sales were way up. Earnings were up. Expenses were down and they were looking at record profits. The android double idea had been a lifesaver.

So absorbed in the numbers was Harry, he never heard the soft footsteps in the dark showroom, never saw the muscular figure crouched near the doorway to his office. But something caught Harry’s eye, he glanced up and saw the suppressor barrel of the pistol glint in the dim light.

Harry rose from the chair and flung his arms out in front of him.

The pistol gave out a quiet pouff pouff. Harry lurched back against the wall and crumpled to the floor.

The assailant fled from the office, back through the dark showroom out to the street. He didn’t get far. Two blocks from Metropolitan Robots, an officer in a passing squad car recognized the suspect from the surveillance footage. The suspect was stopped and, when he could not give a consistent account of himself, was taken in for questioning.

When Harry came in to work the next morning, he found the body crumpled on the floor behind his desk. In a panic, he phoned the police,

“Someone tried to kill me last night! They shot my robot! It must have been the customer, the man on the video!..He’s extremely dangerous...”

Harry breathlessly and somewhat incoherently informed the police of the secretive man who had come to the showroom, who had bought an android, and who, he was now certain, was the same man they had caught on the surveillance video.

The detective on the phone took down Harry’s statements. The case was starting to make sense. The pieces were falling into place, but there was something about the suspect, something not quite right. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Harry’s new information corroborated many of the detective’s suspicions and he advised Harry that the suspect had been picked up in the vicinity last night for questioning and was under arrest.

The real mobster fled to Mexico — directly to a plastic surgery clinic for a facial makeover and an identity change. After the work was done, he intended to go back to the States and pay that Robot salesman a little surprise visit.

But his intentions were never fulfilled. While in Tijuana, he met a beautiful young señorita, married her, settled down, and — for better or worse and luckily for Harry — was never seen or heard from again.

After all the excitement died down, Harry’s life returned more or less to normal. He was sorry for the fracas the double had caused, but the surge in income to Metro Robots from the sales of doubles had soothed the pain.

However, City Hall was in an uproar over the shooting incident and had imposed strict licensing and regulation of android doubles. That, and the bad publicity, had thrown a damper on current sales and Metro customers were noticeably drifting out of the showroom and back in the direction of Universal Robots across town.

That’s it, thought Harry, walking home through the park after a slow day at work. Got to keep moving. Don’t stand still. The pressure’s on. This double thing is played out. We’ve got to come up with the next big thing, and quick, while we’re still hot...

He heard chirping, and a voice, and saw an elderly woman in fur and jewels feeding a flock of pigeons. “Here you go, little birdies. This is for you, my little pidgie-widgies.”

The flock of pigeons surrounded her, cooing and pecking as she tossed them birdseed.

Heh, thought Harry. The old bird’s talking to the pigeons. People are always talking to animals. They talk to squirrels. They talk to their pets. They think the pets are going to talk back? Wouldn’t they love that? Actually... it could be done... The technology’s there...

And the germ of a brilliant idea began to form in Harry’s mind...