Sally's Story: Sales Pitch

	The din of traffic muffled the man’s hurried practicing, mumbled words lost in the roar of cars passing the hulking precinct building. Stepping through the broad glass door, clutching his hat as it was blown half-off his head, he made his way to the secretary’s desk situated square in the center of the sprawling polished floors, blue-uniformed men and women scurrying throughout the building, pouring into and out of the elevators arms full of files and reports. His shoes squeaked on the newly waxed floor, little echoes ricocheting around the mute building as he paced along with his briefcase, finally reaching the large circular desk.
	“How may I help you, sir?”
	“I have an appointment with the commissioner, thank you. Last n-”
	“Last name,” she interrupted.
	“Last name Watkins, first name George.” The woman flipped through a thick booklet of appointments, meetings and police minutia, the little window he’d been squeezed into just enough time to make his pitch. The secretary continued, fetching a small file to flip through, signing off on several forms. Finally she produced a lanyard looped through a neatly stamped and signed card, then pointed to the elevator to the commissioner’s office.
	Entering the glass box he straightened his tie before clicking the button for his destination, the main hall falling away as he passed floor after floor of sprawling office space and administrative drudgery. With a shudder the elevator came to a stop on a less dismal floor of the building, carpeted hallways and fine wooden doors hinting at the nexus of the building’s office complex. Stepping out George paced into the main room, following convenient arrows and signs towards his destination. A curt knock on the door and a gruff man let him in, his broad form the grizzled image of a veteran of the last generation’s war, and not of the rotund, old-money elite who had previously held the office. Watkins removed his fedora and coat as he entered the small room. A handshake exchanged and the two were seated, still waiting on a proper introduction, however. Crawley was a man of brevity and frank words, and was known for his often blunt lines of questioning.
	“So who are you?”
	“A pleasure Commissioner Crawley, a pleasure indeed. As I’m sure you’ve been apprised, I’ll dispense with the spiel from Sterling that you’re likely expecting. I’m George Watkins, chief officer for the Municipal Applications Division at Sterling Robotics. I’m here to-”
	“Yes, that’s nice, but you’ll have to pull me up to speed here son, I’m as much an expert on these robots as anyone else.” Watkins paused, Crawley glaring expectantly back at him. “Well?”
	“W-Well, Commissioner Crawley, Sterling has a long and storied history in the domestic market, namely with our famous and universally praised home-aides, the nandroids. However the recent direction of the company has been in more… *utilitarian* applications for the platform. There’s been a lot of development in applications for municipal roles, and it was believed that the Beacon City Police Department would be an ideal testing ground.”
	“So you want to sell me an experimental line of maid robots, each at least a few grand each?”
	“Oh, not at all! You see, the trick of a nandroid’s cost is in the specialization and quality control. The platform, the scaffolding they’re built on, is itself very affordable. What we’re suggesting is changing the, er, ‘stuffing’ for something more applicable to the police force.”
	“You mean bureaucrats? Robot secretaries?”
	“Not precisely. There’s been a lot of development in a more useful direction, one that won’t impinge upon human employment as much. I’m sure you’re aware as much as the people are of how crime has been trending, yes?”
	“Unfortunately yes, I am. Are you suggesting robot police officers then? I’m sure you’ve already done up a lot of prototypes, but those robots are too small, son. They’re twigs compared to some of my boys and, frankly, can’t get the job done. Hell, I’d even wager-”
	“Not cops, Mister Crawley, not cops,” he interrupted. “We were thinking something more ‘cerebral’, a line of portable, thinking models meant to supplement investigations and detectives in the field. One of the chief issues, and I mean no offense, sincerely, in Beacon City is the rate of crimes gone unsolved. What we can do is offer you a mobile supplement to keep cases warm and out of the reach of the statute of limitations.”
	“See that, George, is an idea. Issue is getting half these trench-coated assholes to accept something that could do their job better than them. I love ‘em to death, but the ornery bastards swear by tradition, not results.”
	“Oh I assure you the SALLE line of robots won’t be *taking* anyone’s jobs, not at all - just making them easier, more efficient. Allow me to elucidate - imagine if you will a device that can accompany a detective to the scene of a crime and, with no fingerprints, a criminal psychology database, and the ability to make snap calculations that would take weeks in the lab, can easily piece together the timeline of a scene in seconds or minutes rather than weeks.”
	“That… that sounds damned interesting to me George, the CSI division is new enough that a shake up like that won’t put anyone out of work. Keep going.”
	“Oh, uh, well - the ‘Sterling Adjunct to Local Law Enforcement’, SALLE, is essentially a meticulously designed computer analytic system that we’ve wedged into a nandroid’s frame - hence the idea of the ‘platform’ earlier. Sally robots have the tools I listed before, and their minds are hardwired to do the cold, data-based thinking that detectives often don’t have time for. This also includes being essentially a walking notebook to hold onto a detective’s thoughts, avenues for interviews, etcetera. I failed to mention some helpful chemical analysis addons.”
	“Tell me more about those.”
	“Well, a standard nandroid can feel things like temperature, pressure, shape and texture - but they also have a delicate system for chemical concentrations, namely to make sure they don’t accidentally over-salt foods and such, or to make sure kids don’t poison themselves. A Sally V. robot, for instance, could test for the presence of narcotics, where a Sally H. could test for firearms residue.”
	“What’s with the V and H?”
	“Ah, right. One caveat is if you want a robot custom-made for solving crimes, they’re limited to a certain scope of crime; restrictions of memory, education, etcetera. Vice, homicide, arson and traffic - we’ve been developing one for each, naturally, but so far have only finished the V model.” The older man paused in thought, his piercing brown eyes blinking quickly before looking back up.
	“Son, I’m not one to swing on the first pitch but you’ve thrown a hell of a ball here. I of all people know how bad things are getting out there,” he said, glancing out the small window. “And what you’re offering me is something that could make things just that much better, and easier on the boys, too.”
	“So - how do you feel?”
	“You’ve got me in a tight spot here, ‘cause I can safely assume there’s nothing else like this out there, correct?”
	“Yes, I can assure you of that.” The commissioner scratched at his black hair as his face twisted in thought. “And for what you’re buying, the cost *is* comparable to an, I don’t know, an older model nandroid. Modern frame, simpler training - relatively speaking,” the division chief said.
	“Alright then, but we can dispense with buying a city’s-worth of them, though. I’ll see to getting you the cash for a single one, a test drive if you will. But I can tell this is something that will warrant a little extra spending, based on what you're throwing out.” The slim man nodded his affirmation before standing from his seat, swinging his coat over his arm.
	“In that case, Commissioner Crawley, I believe our business for today is concluded. I do hope I’ll be back here soon enough, however, and your new Sally will be in as soon as possible.”
	“One last question, George,” the commissioner started. “The unfortunate truth is these robots will be in danger more than ‘too often’ can capture. What I’m asking is whether or not these little robots can handle themselves in a scuffle.” The young man opposite paused to think, struggling with an answer that wouldn’t fudge the deal while trying to avoid any legally dubious embellishments. He settled on the classic answer for almost any ‘can they do this?’ situation, erring on the side of optimism for the prototype robots.
	“They can be taught, yes. It’s Sterling policy not to teach anything how to kill or handle implements meant to kill, but in this case we’ve opened an exception inside of them. Obviously we’ve left the onus of filling that space on police departments because training varies, but like I said it’s there.”
	“Excellent, that’s just the answer I was looking for,” he said, some hidden disquiet soothed. “Well, Mister Watkins, I do believe we're done for today.” The men shook hands again and a third time after some pleasantries. The commissioner escorted the young corporate employee-cum-salesman back to the elevator, written affirmation of the deal stowed in his briefcase. As the pair waited for the car to ascend the building they spoke over little daily bobs of discussion from the sports to the weather to the economy. A small chime from the elevator and the squeaking open of its doors signaled to the one man his time to depart. In his last few seconds, holding the door open as it repeatedly tried to shut him off, he assured the commissioner his new robot would be arriving post haste and ready for work ‘out of the box’. Smiling he pulled his arm from the doors and was shrouded behind the metal slabs as the elevator fell away once more.