Marla was on her way to the looming floor to figure out what was going to get cut completely from the program due to shortage of materials, time, and personnel. As the lift gates opened, she was immediately overrun by a mob of gibbering, jabbering, primping robots in the style of Rosie, the Jetsons' maid. Except that they were shapely and tall, very tall — eight feet tall—and had legs.
"Oh god, you're not my mannequins are you?" she asked, stepping back to avoid the onslaught.
"Well, if you're name is Marla Gershe and this is the four hundred and tenth floor, yes we are." The lead robot, the tallest at about eight foot five, answered. They all retracted their heads in order to step out of the lift cage and into the hallway.
"What's that smell?"
"Oil of Chevrolet. Do you like it? It's the latest thing for us working girls."
"No, actually. I hope that's not going to be part of the program. In fact, what are you doing here? I need you down at the sizing room. Did you send in your specs to Agnes?"
"We were programmed to see you. If you wanted us in the sizing room, you should have gone there. We locked on to your coordinates to effect interception. Yes."
"Yes what?"
"You asked if we sent our specs into Agnes."
"Agnes!" Marla turned and hollered as she retraced her steps back into her office.
"Yes?" Agnes answered, just as Marla entered the room.
"Do you have today's mannequin's specs?"
"I forwarded them to the sizing room," Agnes replied as Marla stood holding the door open.
She turned back to the head robot. "Can you please go to the sizing room now?"
"Only if you reprogram us to go to the sizing room or go there yourself."
"Let's go. I wasn't going there but if that's what it takes. And how do I get you to stay there once you're there?"
"Oh, you can tell us to stay there and we'll stay there."
She herded everyone back onto the lift and hit '72', not puzzling over the fact that the mannequins would not go there if she told them to, but they would stay there if she told them to.
"Have you ever been fitted before?" she asked on the way down.
"Oh, lots of times. There was the pecan show last month. And that lovely orange show last week. I must say the O'Halloran plant's shows are really something! And that Grant Parker! What a doll. He..."
"Forget it. Here we are."
They all stepped out of the lift box, the mannequins' heads retracting again one by one to fit through the opening and then again to fit through the doorway of the sizing room.
"Just go see Minzt and stand in the corner until someone needs you for a fitting. Tell them it's for Marla Gershe's show."
Saddle came huffing up after riding the alternate lift down. "I've got a weaver. He'll be here by ten fifteen."
"Good, get me four more."
"Did Torpid okay that?"
"I didn't ask, he okayed the rate. I'll work it out with him later. If we want the show, the stuff has to be done by noon. Don't look at me like that! Just do it."
"Oh and Floxie's waiting for the music order," Saddle added.
"Oh Lord. I hadn't thought of that yet. What are we doing? 40s? I'll need some Prima. Let's do every recorded version of 'Sing, Sing, Sing.' End with Benny Goodman. Live. No, wait. I'll take care of it. I need a squawker. Can you get me one sent to the loom room? I gotta help Mama."
Saddle looked at her wide-eyed. "You'll get grieved."
"Yup. And you too. I need you back on a loom as soon as the hand weavers are started and bolts are on their way to the sizing room."
"No way. I'm not getting grieved. Besides, who's going to do the program?"
"I'll grieve you myself if we don't get this show done. Just do it after you finish the program."
Saddle stared open-mouthed as Marla turned to the lift for the loom floor. Once there, she stood knocking five problems around in her head at once while staring at the double doors. They looked like the type of doors that might lead to the kitchen of a Twentieth Century diner. All that was missing was last week's blue plate special spattered on the little round windows.
Marla shook off the indecision and visions of home-baked spaghetti, and pushed through the doors and onto the loom floor, the right half of which was a flurry of weaving activity, the left half deadly silent — a reminder that a whole day's work was only getting half-done. Light shafts entered the room through smudged windows on the upper parts of the walls giving the scene a religious greeting-card feel. The weavers appeared in sacred splendor at the center of the room while the machines clacked away at lightening speeds spewing out the reds, golds, greens and aquas that would wind up being the evening's show stoppers. Here a double knit jersey raveled off Bailey's loom. There, a floral cotton jacquard reversible, with perfect inverse pattern on its opposite side piled up in Shmid's catch basket.
The blessed weavers did not even raise their heads in acknowledgment of Marla's entrance. Because the machines were so loud, they couldn't hear the doors open even if they weren't wearing their hearing protection. Besides which, they were working against the clock with no time for luxuries such as noticing what was going on around them. They kept their heads bowed over sheds and heddles, eyes glued to weft-width readouts. Their looms were not manufacturing size or grade. They weren't in the production department. They merely had to get enough cloth for the day's show. Small and light-duty, their shuttles were known to stall easily. Often, the weavers had to get the 350 pound blocks unstuck manually. It was a dangerous procedure, but what are you gonna do when time costs 5,000 per?
Marla walked over to Mama, standing at the front of the room and facing the other workers, much like a teacher standing before her students. Or perhaps a task master with his gavel tempoing the slave-oarsmen. Either way, Mama faced the workers so she could keep an eye on them and notice if anybody's machine lacked rhythm.
Marla pulled the order clip-pad out of the in-basket on Mama's desk, which stood next to her loom, identifying who was working on what and what was left unassigned. The mohair was more than likely going to be cut completely. Nobody buys mohair since it's expensive. There'd be the least kick from cutting that, so she skipped that one. A yellow quadrille suiting had not been taken yet, so she went to the side bin and pulled the warp set-up and the weft bobbins with the yellow garbanic thread.
She turned and eyed Mama. Mama kept at her own turquoise knit braid — the most difficult on the sheets as was appropriate for the most experienced weaver on the floor. Mama kept her eyes on her loom readout and merely shook her head in disgust as if she could not be held responsible for what was about to happen. The blood would not be on her hands.
The ten weavers in front of her, however, looked up uneasily every so often to follow Marla's movements. They said nothing, just noted the activity.
Meanwhile, Marla inspected the thread, searching the lading to match the part number to that on the order sheet. She took her time, hoping for a miracle that would prevent her from following through with her threat of laying hands on union work.
Suddenly the doors flew back and Saddle came in yelling her name.
"Marla, Torpid! Marla, Torpid!" she screaming over the din of the looms.
Marla, of course, could not hear her, but Saddle's usual scrubbed pink face had turned to flustered red so Marla guessed something big was up. She dropped the yellow implements and swiftly walked back through the doors out into the hallway.
"What's up?" she asked.
"Torpid. He's pissed," Saddle answered.
"Drunk?"
"Uh, uh. Mad."
"You didn't mention the extra hand weavers did you?" Marla asked, taking the yakker that Saddle was handing her.
Saddle just shook her head. She went over to the little portal windows in the doors to watch the looming activities as Marla paced back and forth while speaking to Torpid.
"Torpid," Marla said.
"What the hell are you doing over there?"
"Uh... Gee, I don't know. Gluing my little red, round nose on, maybe?"
"Lamont just called. [inside scoop on Lamont] Said a mannequin is in his office asking for you. I called over to security to see what the deal was and one comes into my office. They keep retracting their heads into their necks and asking for you. They're all over the place, giving everybody the creeps. What's going on?"
"What?" She ran to the lift gates.
"They keep retracting their heads and ..."
"What?!" She waved over the call button for the lift.
Saddle turned around to catch the conversation. "What?" she said.
"They're all over asking for you. Why aren't you answering your phone and why aren't you in your office."
"I'm down on the floor trying to set up a loom."
"What? You can't..."
"What?" Saddle asked.
"Shut up." Marla answered.
"What?" Torpid asked.
"Not you," Marla replied. "Where are these mannequins now? Did you tell them to shut up and wait?"
"What?" Saddle asked.
"Shut up," Marla repeated shooting an angry glare toward her Second.
"What?" Torpid asked.
"Not you. Forget it. I'll come there and round them up myself. I thought they were supposed to be able to lock onto my coordinates."
The lift arrived and the two stepped onto the platform.
She pushed a few buttons and tossed the yakker to Saddle and just as the lift gates closed said, "Ask Agnes to collect the mannequins and send them back to the sizing room to meet me there. And get a tech to reprogram them. They're all over the place. They're not following orders the right way. Can you get me some coffee too?"
"What?"
"Coffee, just call down and have it sent up."
The lift zoomed up to 72 and stopped.
"No, the mannequins..." Saddle backed up. "Uh, what's going on? You're really going to set a loom?"
Just as Marla stepped off the lift, she stopped and turned to Saddle. "I told you, we both are, but one of us has to get started on the program layout. You're better with the print stuff, so I elect you. I guess that leaves me to do the weaving. Go up and get started on that program right away. When you've got the prelims, walk them down to the loom room and I'll sign off on them there."
"Oh, there you are!" One of the mannequins called to her from down the hall. "I brought you your coffee."
"What?" Marla said stepping off the lift.
"Your coffee, there was an unfulfilled order in the system so I brought it up."
"Saddle." The lift gates were just closing on Saddle as Marla turned and said, "Cancel the — Forget it; I'll need it."
The lift gates closed. In the hallway, Marla grabbed the coffee from the mannequin. "I thought I told you to get sized here. What's the problem?"
"Our current order is to see Marla Gershe and see to her needs."
"But my needs are for you to stay here and get sized. I told you that."
"Did you say that? Exactly? We sensed an unfulfilled order for coffee for Marla Gershe that overran any previous orders."
"Yes, I told you to get sized!"
"Those exact words?"
"How should I know? Whatever I said was close enough. What's wrong with your AI unit?"
"Well, if you want us to interpret what you mean, you have to program us for that, otherwise we need exact phrasing."
"Since when?"
"Since last night when our software was updated. The new package requires exact phrasing until someone changes the preferences."
"And we weren't informed of this, why?"
"The memos were sent out to all departments. Agnes received one yesterday."
"One day ahead of time? Who has time to read memos? They couldn't give us a week's warning or something?"
"Company policy states all memos will be read in real-time; no mail-boxing."
"Okay, okay, okay, forget it. Please stay in the sizing room and get sized for my show tonight. Can you please round everyone up and... how many are you?"
"Eight."
"Can you please round everybody up and go to the sizing room here and... and get sized for my show tonight? Can you tell me what you're going to do?"
"I'm going to round up everybody and have them come to the sizing room and get sized for your show tonight."
"Rephrase: Please round up the eight mannequins in your present squad and have them come to the sizing room here and get sized for my show tonight. Please tell me what you're going to do."
"I'm going to round up the eight mannequins in my present squad and have them come to the sizing room here and get sized for your show tonight."
"Great. Thanks."
"Welcome."
The whole conversation took place in the hallway between the sizing room and the lift. Once Marla was satisfied the mannequin understood what it was supposed to do, she waved her hand over the call button. The door opened and she entered.
"Loom floor, please," she announced and was about to begin a mindless pacing back and forth in the lift when a large object abruptly bumped into her. Looking up she saw the mannequin with which she had just come to an understanding.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked, just as the lift gates closed.
"I'm rounding up the other mannequins."
"You can't do that through Agnes?"
"You didn't say to do that specifically. I had to use the first solution I came up with as per the new protocol."
"Oh, for Chris' sakes. Don't you have any logic capacity at all?"
"If you're going to speak casually like that, you'll have to ..."
"Program you, I suppose. Agnes!" she screamed, pushing the intercom button.
"Yes, dear," Agnes said quietly, too quietly, almost.
"Can you please round up the mannequins and is there anyway you can program them for logic usage and casual mode?"
"Yes and no."
"Which?"
"Yes to the first question, no to the second. You need a tech to program them. There are hardware issues. And besides, yesterday's memo said..."
"Forget it. Just send all the mannequins down to the sizing room to get sized for my show tonight."
"Yes'm"
"Thanks."
Return to Episode 1 somewhere near where you left off.
Return to Episode 2 somewhere near where you left off.