look both ways before crossing." Metcalf pried the plate off and peered inside. "I have spent whole days engaged in conversation, without once talking to a human being. Every time I make a purchase my receipt tells me my remaining bank balance, to four utterly meaningless decimal places, not only in the U.S. dollars paid into it by the Navy, but in Bandwidth CashUnits and six other major currencies, based on the exchange rates as of a millisecond before. Every morning and night the damned mirror in the head in my hotel room reminds me to brush my teeth." Metcalf selected a set of wire cutters. "I," he said, snipping the leads to the speaker behind the bartender's smiling mouth, "have had it with all the nag, nag, nag, nag, nag."
"I dunno," Prigot said, still a little nervous and trying to soothe his friend. "I kinda like it. Attentive service, everything works."
"You, old pal, are an engineer. The damn robots don't bother you. You like machines—but would you want your sister to marry one? That's the only damn thing they haven't automated here—yet."
"I don't have a sister."
Metcalf looked up from his work to stare pityingly at Prigot. "Then, to paraphrase the immortal Marx, she's a very lucky woman. You don't get the point, do you? At least here, in the bar we come to every day, I want a machine that will shut up and just pour the booze and leave me alone."
"Ten C.U. says the maintenance machines have it repaired before you can order your next drink," Prigot said.
"You're on. Because I have also just cut the maintenance request caller inside this gizmo's head." Metcalf closed up the inspection panel, replaced the wig, stood to reach over the counter top, and shoved the head back down on the bartender's neck-pivot.
The bartender's body twitched once as the head's circuits linked back up with it. The head swiveled through 360 degrees, then the eyes seem to lock and track. The bartender turned, and its arm came up to shake a finger at Metcalf. A deep bass voice rumbled up from its chest. "Please use care in future, sir," it said. "If not for the back-up speaker in my body cavity, I could not now talk to you, and thus could not serve you properly."
Prigot roared with laughter as Metcalf glared at the robot. "Tomorrow," Metcalf said. "Tomorrow I come in here with a shaped thermite charge and melt you down. Now go get me a double Scotch."
"Draught for me," Prigot said cheerfully. "On your tab. Gotta start spending those ten C.U."
"Thank you. I will get your orders, sirs." The robot rolled down to the other end of the bar.
"Damn it, George." Metcalf stared into the mirror behind the box. "Damn it, George. Nothing's going right."
The robot delivered their drinks. Prigot reached out a graceful, long-fingered hand and took up his tankard. That was another thing he liked about Bandwidth: you got a really good-sized beer. Prigot carefully sucked some of the foam off" the head, caught Metcalf s eye in the mirror behind the bar, and grinned as he raised his glass to him.
George Prigot was the shorter, chubbier, more relaxed of the two. His brown hair had been bleached almost to blond by Bandwidth's sun, and he had put on a kilo or two. He had grown a beard, too. It was an improvement, and gave his face a maturer look, hiding the almost childlike delight that lit up his face whenever something interesting happened. He wore a rumpled old coverall covered with pockets and zippers and velcro. He seemed relaxed, comfortable. "Come on, Randall. It's not that rough."
Metcalf hadn't fit into Bandwidth as well as Prigot, to say the least. He had the air of a man forced to hurry up and wait, who needed to check the time every three minutes. He was tall, skinny, pale-skinned, with black hair and bushy black eyebrows. His fingers drummed on the counter top, and he leaned his bar stool back on two legs, threatening to overbalance and crash to the floor. He wore his non-dress tropical khaki uniform, with a line of ribbons over his breast
"I dunno," Prigot said, still a little nervous and trying to soothe his friend. "I kinda like it. Attentive service, everything works."
"You, old pal, are an engineer. The damn robots don't bother you. You like machines—but would you want your sister to marry one? That's the only damn thing they haven't automated here—yet."
"I don't have a sister."
Metcalf looked up from his work to stare pityingly at Prigot. "Then, to paraphrase the immortal Marx, she's a very lucky woman. You don't get the point, do you? At least here, in the bar we come to every day, I want a machine that will shut up and just pour the booze and leave me alone."
"Ten C.U. says the maintenance machines have it repaired before you can order your next drink," Prigot said.
"You're on. Because I have also just cut the maintenance request caller inside this gizmo's head." Metcalf closed up the inspection panel, replaced the wig, stood to reach over the counter top, and shoved the head back down on the bartender's neck-pivot.
The bartender's body twitched once as the head's circuits linked back up with it. The head swiveled through 360 degrees, then the eyes seem to lock and track. The bartender turned, and its arm came up to shake a finger at Metcalf. A deep bass voice rumbled up from its chest. "Please use care in future, sir," it said. "If not for the back-up speaker in my body cavity, I could not now talk to you, and thus could not serve you properly."
Prigot roared with laughter as Metcalf glared at the robot. "Tomorrow," Metcalf said. "Tomorrow I come in here with a shaped thermite charge and melt you down. Now go get me a double Scotch."
"Draught for me," Prigot said cheerfully. "On your tab. Gotta start spending those ten C.U."
"Thank you. I will get your orders, sirs." The robot rolled down to the other end of the bar.
"Damn it, George." Metcalf stared into the mirror behind the box. "Damn it, George. Nothing's going right."
The robot delivered their drinks. Prigot reached out a graceful, long-fingered hand and took up his tankard. That was another thing he liked about Bandwidth: you got a really good-sized beer. Prigot carefully sucked some of the foam off" the head, caught Metcalf s eye in the mirror behind the bar, and grinned as he raised his glass to him.
George Prigot was the shorter, chubbier, more relaxed of the two. His brown hair had been bleached almost to blond by Bandwidth's sun, and he had put on a kilo or two. He had grown a beard, too. It was an improvement, and gave his face a maturer look, hiding the almost childlike delight that lit up his face whenever something interesting happened. He wore a rumpled old coverall covered with pockets and zippers and velcro. He seemed relaxed, comfortable. "Come on, Randall. It's not that rough."
Metcalf hadn't fit into Bandwidth as well as Prigot, to say the least. He had the air of a man forced to hurry up and wait, who needed to check the time every three minutes. He was tall, skinny, pale-skinned, with black hair and bushy black eyebrows. His fingers drummed on the counter top, and he leaned his bar stool back on two legs, threatening to overbalance and crash to the floor. He wore his non-dress tropical khaki uniform, with a line of ribbons over his breast
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