Standing with mathematical accuracy in the center of the boulevard, the android appeared to be giving a generous twenty meters' free passage on either hand; but there was no doubt that its multifaceted, revolving eye, on the crown of its black dome, would check out anything down to termite size that tried to pass.
Experience over the last six years told Gunnar Holt that he hadn't a thing to worry about. Ever since he had outgrown the physical norm for Horizon Delta, the androids had left him alone. Now, nudging the two meter mark in height and with the flat, powerful physique of a mountaineer, he could look down on any android he met.
A less reflective type might have judged that the androids were backing down from a challenge they could not meet, but he knew better.
As a youngster, before he had spoiled the distribution curve, he had judged the power behind an android's arm. Single-handed, one had put down a riot in Barnston precinct when food deliveries had been in a snarl. With men clambering on it like flies, it had methodically carved up a milling crowd, leaving a swathe of dead and injured.
The first hint that he was one apart had come by accident. He had been pushing himself to reach the dormitory area, hurrying to beat the curfew, and had found that he was already too late. The duty guard at the check point had already lined up half a dozen delinquents and was recording identity serials to levy a fine. Gunnar Holt had walked on, determined that he would not submit until he was physically stopped.
There was no doubt that the android saw him. It made an indecisive move, then packed it in and went back to its recording chore.
When it happened a third time, he made a deliberate experiment to see how far he could go. Unbelievably, it was true. For some reason, the androids were not programmed to list him as one of the flock. His foster parents, aware for some time that they had taken a cuckoo into the nest, were glad to sign off and see him given an early admission to the male dormitory area.
So he had freedom, of a kind, to make his own way about the city.
At first he had used his rest days for travel. Day journeys on foot, giving himself time to clock in at his own pad and the refectory service he had to use. That meant only one meal on those days and a growth of self-discipline to mark him out even more.
Northwest from Barnston precinct, he reckoned it was eight kilometers to the outer ring of hydroponic farms and the ultimate perimeter of the city. Northeast it was four; Southwest, six. Southeast was more interesting. Once he had taken two days and pushed to the end of the main axis. Twenty kilometers at the least count.
What had taken time was the park. Recreation areas in the precincts were adequate for exercise, but this had a quality of size that filled the mind. Thortonheath Park, the board said; halfway house on his long journey.
It was a quiet place to rest the mind, since every precinct, like his own, was in a frenetic muddle of planned obsolescence and rebuilding. The park and the libraries divided his free time.
A high ration of primate curiosity had driven him into the jungle of higher education. Using the teaching machines, with programs from the archives, which the android librarians allowed him to pick for himself, he beat a path through mathematics and engineering out and beyond the needs of his job as a recycling operative which finally closed the circle of apartheid. He was a minority of one.
So now, Gunnar Holt carried on down the fairway on a collision course with the stationary android. Today he would force the issue to a confrontation of his own choosing. He would make one of them actually move out of his way.
)
