More Tales Of Pirx The Pilot by Stanislaw Lem

Author:Stanislaw Lem
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

The secretary, a platinum blonde, sprang up from behind her desk.

“Good morning,” said Pirx. “I—”

“Good morning. Follow me, please.”

“They’re here already?”

“They’re waiting for you.”

She took him down a deserted corridor, her high heels tapping like tiny metal stilts. The cavernous hall, tiled with synthetic granite, resonated coldly, stonelike. They passed dark doors mounted with aluminum numbers and plates. The secretary seemed nervous. Several times she glanced furtively at Pirx. Not a flirting glance; more like fearful. Pirx felt somehow sorry for her and, along with it, sensed the absolute folly of the affair. Suddenly he asked, startling even himself with his question:

“Have you seen them?”

“Just briefly. In passing.”

“What are they like?”

“Oh—you haven’t seen them?”

She seemed almost relieved. As if familiarity bespoke membership in some strange, perhaps sinister conspiracy.

“There are six all together. One even spoke to me. Absolutely convincing! Not a single telltale sign! If I’d met him in the street, I’d never have dreamed ... But when I took a closer look, there was something in his eyes, and here.” She touched her lips.

“The others, too?”

“They were standing outside in the corridor.”

They got into the elevator; tiny golden grains of light snaked up the wall. Standing face to face with the girl, Pirx was better able to judge the success of her efforts to erase all vestiges of her own individuality—with the help of pencil, mascara, and lipstick—to become a momentary facsimile of Inda Lea, or whatever the name was of that season’s fashionably frazzled star. When she fluttered her eyelids, he was concerned for her false lashes.

“Robots!” she said in a deep whisper, and shuddered as if brushed by a reptile.

The tenth-floor suite was occupied by six men, all seated. The moment Pirx entered, one of them, until now hidden by a sheet of the Herald Tribune, folded his paper, rose, and approached him with a broad smile. The others stood up as if on cue.

They were more or less of equal height and looked like test pilots in civvies: broad-shouldered, beige-suited, white-shirted, loud-tied. Two were fair-haired, one a redhead, the others dark, but all had the same clear blue eyes. That was all he had a chance to record before the one who had approached him stuck his hand into Pirx’s and, pumping it vigorously, said, “McGuirr’s the name. I once had the pleasure of sailing under your command—on the Pollux, it was. But you wouldn’t remember me....”

“Sorry,” admitted Pirx.

McGuirr turned to the others, who were stationed around a circular table littered with magazines.

“Men, meet Commander Pirx, your new CO. Commander, your crew: John Calder, chief pilot; Harry Brown, copilot; Andy Thomson, nucleonics engineer; John Burton, radio-electronics engineer, and Thomas Burns, neurologist, cyberneticist, and medic all rolled into one.”

Pirx shook hands with each, then all sat down, sliding their metal-framed chairs, which bent under the weight of their bodies, up closer to the table. Silence reigned until it was rent by McGuirr’s stentorian baritone.

“On behalf of the board of directors of Cybertronics, Inteltron and Nortronics, thank you for showing such confidence in our undertaking.

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