“ROBOTS SOLVE EVERYTHING. If there is a problem, then there is a robot that can fix it. A robot gets it done whether it be a mundane task or an extraordinary feat of brilliance."
The salesman barked from his booth like a doomsday preacher shouting from a street corner. He wore a blue blazer with wide lapels and a paisley kerchief dangled out of the breast pocket. Artificially brightened teeth flashed as he spoke. Blue eyes scanned the room like lasers, looking for a mark. He danced over the showroom's tile floor on patent leather shoes while video screens behind him showed working robots of varying shapes and sizes. Humanoid models folded linens and washed fine china with the sure dexterity of the best housekeepers. One that resembled a pair of mechanical arms spread mortar and laid bricks for a house. Another robot shaped like a giant squid captured images of the ocean floor; exploration rovers raced over Martian surfaces. A banner with the logo, Humanity Advances When Robots Flourish, hung over the whole display.
"We offer models that can execute one command or a thousand at a time," continued the salesman. "There's a home unit for every budget. You don't have to go another day in a disorderly house. Humanity advances when robots flourish. Advance your life today. Come here, young man," the salesman waved to a passerby. The young man in question looked as uninterested in buying a robot as humanly possible, but he made the mistake of briefly looking at a screen for more than a second. Several eyes cornered him with their gaze, and he sheepishly stepped towards the salesman.
"You look like a man in need of some robotic assistance. Do you have a robot at home, son?"
"No, I—"
"Why not? Do you have so much free time that you need to fill it with boring housework?"
"Well, no, but—"
"Of course you don't! Why make your bed when a robot can do it for you? Get your start in robotics with a home model today." Several screens flashed the schematics of home assistants, or H/A, model robots. H/A-1 looked like a trash can on wheels and boasted the ability to do simple cleaning tasks around small homes, while models like H/A-9 had a definite human shape. These higher-end models could cook three gourmet meals per day, including ordering the groceries.
"I don't really need help around the house," the young man said, but the salesman did not take no for an answer.
"Of course you don't. You look like a busy man who is at work more than at home. A young professional on the cusp of a successful career. You have appointments to keep and clients to impress," the salesman winked a blue eye. "Might I interest you in one of our factotum models?"
A screen behind the salesman populated with the specs of robot model F/A-204: a personal assistant for modern professionals. The text said male and female presenting versions were available, but a metal woman appeared on the screen. She was all silver and matte gray except for a few red-anodized accents: red pouty lips, blushed cheeks, and long synthetic red hair. Her chassis was slender, with only a few convex curves to pay homage to the femmes that made up the starched backbone of white-collar businesses since time immemorial.
"This model here can file, schedule, make phone calls, and administrate a front desk more efficiently than any human secretary, but unlike the pretty blondes your firm keeps hiring, the wife won't be mad when you bring this one home. Its protocols can seamlessly integrate over to home tasks, too. How much? I hear you ask."
"I didn't ask anything," the poor young man stammered, but the salesman's question was rhetorical.
"The F/A-204 is an affordable model for businesses of all sizes. Processing speeds are customizable to fit your office's needs, but we guarantee the monthly fee will be cheaper than a union-rate employee's payroll."
The victim of the salesman's attention grimaced. He made a motion to turn away, but the salesman rested a well-manicured hand on the young man's shoulder, determined to close the deal.
"I can see I've made a mistake. You look like a smart man. Too smart and too altruistic for the private sector. You, sir, look like the academic type. The desire for knowledge is what gets you out of bed in the morning. Tell me what your thesis is about." The salesman paused only long enough for his listener to take a short breath. A single gasp for air that the salesman seemed to not need. He had no expectation of hearing what the young man might say before he continued to his next pitch.
"Don't bother. I'd never be able to understand the topics that interest the beautiful mind you've got on your shoulders. But I am sure you will be most interested in a Teacher's Assistant. The T/A-101.”
The specs for the F/A model vanished on the screen, and the T/A-101 took its place. Another robotic woman appeared. This one was shorter and fuller in the body. Its identifying marks were blue instead of red, and its false hair was cropped below the chin. Thick lenses sat over the robot's eyes to give it the appearance of wearing spectacles.
"The T/A 101 is a researcher's dream," the salesman continued. "Not only can she access and analyze the world's largest digital libraries in mere seconds, but she can also read physical text thanks to her advanced optics. If archaic languages are your expertise, then you'll love her translation abilities courtesy of the same software developed by the linguists who deciphered Akkadian. But she's not just a dime for the humanities department. She can perform statistical analysis, calculate theorems, titrate acids and bases, vivisect, dissect, and inspect lab specimens, all while keeping impeccable notes."
The young man rubbed his forehead. He didn't know what titrate or vivisect meant. He wasn't an academic or professional. He was barely older than a boy and certainly did not have the means to purchase a robot, no matter how flexible the payments were. But the congenial salesman's firm hand remained on his shoulder. The salesman watched his prey sweat and noticed the hand that raised to the boy's brow. He leaned in and spoke in a low, deep voice that didn't carry further than a few inches.
"I see you're unmarried. So am I. The second wife took almost everything except my beating heart in the divorce. Let me show you something that helps me whenever I feel lonely."
The salesman wiped his hand over the screen. The spec sheet for T/A-101 went away, and an all-but-pornographic image of a woman with blue hair and glasses appeared. The young man's face turned red, and he squirmed as the salesman came in closer to whisper, "All models can be customized with lifelike skinsuits. I swear, the latex feels just like the real thing."
"Okay, enough of that," said a woman behind the salesman. The friendly hand fell away from the boy's shoulder, and the display revealing T/A-101 in her skinsuit went black. The young man turned around, anxious to be free from the salesman's grasp, and found a museum docent standing in front of a crowd of his classmates. She held a black remote in her hand.
"Do you have any interest in purchasing a robot," the docent asked with a smile. She had silvered hair, but her eyes were bright and green like meadows. The docent wore a red museum ID badge on a lanyard decorated with pins and buttons. It said her name, Chara, beneath her title.
"That was terrifying," exclaimed the boy.
"Robot salesmen and women of the late 21st century were known to be— gregarious— while in pursuit of a deal," Chara said.
"Excuse me, ma'am," asked a voice from among the students following the docent. The red-faced young man slipped away from the exhibit at the Living Museum of Second Millennium Technology and found a place at the back of the crowd while the docent took the question.
"Yes?" Chara asked.
"Could robots get married?" The teenage girl who asked the question wore round glasses not unlike the T/A-101's lenses but had blonde hair instead of blue.
"No, they could not," Chara answered, "that legislation thankfully never passed before the old governments were disbanded."
"Then why did the salesman say he was divorced?" Asked the girl.
"Ah, you caught that. Many later robot models, like our salesman here, possessed the abilities to fabricate information, or lie as some might say."
"Why?" Asked another voice from the crowd. "Why would anyone want a robot that lies?"
"So they could appear to be more human. To lie is to be alive," Chara explained. "Excuse me, young man," the docent stood on her toes to see over the crowd. She gestured to the poor boy who was accosted by the sales robot. He was desperately trying to fade into the museum's white-washed walls but failing to do so.
"Yes, ma'am," the boy said.
"Did you think the robot was lying to you at any point during his sales pitch?"
"No, ma'am," said the boy, "the robot was very convincing."
"Really?" the docent's green eyes twinkled. "So you believed it when it said you were a professional and an academic? These things were fabrications just as the robot's two divorces."
"Well, no. I know I'm not any of that," said the boy.
"Did those lies— those stories— convince you it was a real salesman?"
"I think so."
"Then do you see the problem with robotics?" The docent asked. Several heads in the group nodded, so she continued. "When the machines learned to lie, humanity found itself in trouble—"
"But miss," interrupted the blonde girl with T/A-101 spectacles, "second-millennium large language models began lying to humans almost immediately. How was it any different when robots began to lie?"
The docent squinted while she considered this question. She fidgeted with the remote control in her left hand, and her right stroked her chin thoughtfully. The students shuffled from foot to foot, anticipating her answer, but the boy spoke first.
"The robot didn't just lie with its words," the boy said. "He lied with his touch, too, and with his smile. When he touched me, it felt welcoming and warm. I've never been to this museum before, but the robot held me like an old friend."
"Exactly," Chara said. "It would be one thing to read the robot's false words on a page or a screen, but it is another thing entirely to be with the robot when it acts out its lies. That is what fooled you, young man, and it is what fooled our forefathers. Lying humans are hard enough to navigate, but how do you compete with something programmed to be better than you?"
"How did humans compete?" asked the girl.
"Excellent question," the docent thrust a hand in the air, "the answer lies in our next exhibit: early cybernetic enhancements." With a wave, Chara ushered her charges into the next room. As they left, she pressed a button on her remote, and the sales robot returned to functionality.
The robot shook its head as if waking from a nap and scanned the room. A new group of school children entered the far side, led by another gray-haired guide wearing a red ID badge. There were many things to look at in the robotics hall in the Living Museum of Second Millennium Technology. Some of the same models the robot purported to sell were on display nearby. A second-gen H/A-7 folded a perpetual pile of laundry while an F/A-204 that once belonged to a politician drafted campaign speeches behind a mahogany desk. Its buxom skin suit— barely contained by a black blouse and skirt— revealed much about the politician's character.
The robot smiled. A young girl's eyes flashed in the direction of the sales exhibit. A new lead.
"Robots solve everything," began the salesman. "If there is a problem, then there is a robot that can fix it. A robot gets it done, whether it be a mundane task or an extraordinary feat of brilliance. Remember, humanity advances when robots flourish. Advance your life today!"
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