Pappa Zippy's Pizza

I was upstairs when the doorbell sounded that Friday afternoon. I knew we weren't expecting anyone, so as I clomped down the stairs to the front door landing, I worked up my best "lovely-to-see-you-will-you-please-leave?" face.

I opened the door, stood silently, confronting a face whose sincere smile was orders of magnitude brighter than my synthetic one. I blinked.

It was my wife's brother, Michael; or, as our family members called him, Uncle Mike. Uncle Mike was a fix-it man without peer. He could repair a refrigerator, a misbehaving amplifier, or a leaking pipe with equal ease. He was also a soi-disant inventor, though in that occupation, his otherwise stellar performances turned meteoric. As a repair-man, he shone high; as an inventor, he hurtled down and blew open craters. The thing was, I could never get any other members of our family - least of all my wife - to recognize this.

The last time I had seen him, Mike was being escorted away by an army general who had told us that - despite the fact that Mike and his business partner could be incarcerated for several years for absconding with an infantry exo-suit and modifying it to do construction work - the out-of-the-box thinking that Mike had displayed was something the military could make good use of in one of its top secret weapons development labs. I had refrained from explaining to the general that asking Mike to develop a weapon was doing it backward - Mike was the weapon himself. To defeat an enemy with Uncle Mike, convince that enemy to kidnap Mike and coerce him into inventing something … preferably in the enemy's capital.

Instead, I simply waved farewell to Mike and the general, and spent the next couple of weeks perusing news reports for the inevitable story of the military weapons lab that had been suddenly and mysteriously destroyed under circumstances that were still being investigated. When the reports never appeared, I decided that either the calamity had been hushed up (the lab would have been top secret, after all), or Mike had miraculously found his place in the world.

And now, here he was, back again.

He opened his mouth to speak.

I slammed the door shut, turned, descended the stairway into the basement, and headed for the small workroom at the basement's far end. The doorbell rang again. It rang once more as I closed the workroom door and turned on the light. In the workrooms' center, standing on a bench, was the small end table I'd promised my wife several weeks ago I would sand and paint.

Just now, it has become a perfect day to spend in the basement, I told myself, ignoring the distant doorbell that rang yet again. My wife's voice called from some room far above. I ignored that, too. I took a piece of sandpaper from the pile on the shelf, attached it to the hand-sander, and went to work, loudly humming a nonsense tune.

Presently, I heard feet on stairs, the opening of the front door, and faraway voices. Feet walked rapidly into and out of rooms above me, obviously searching for something or someone. Most likely me … but I chased that thought out of my mind. A voice shouted what might have been my name. I intensified my sanding and humming.

Moments later, the workroom door flew open.

"There you are!" my wife cried. "Didn't you hear the doorbell? Me calling you? Uncle Mike is here -- he needs your help!"

I put down the sander, and took a deep breath.

"Look," I said, "I'm begging you, don't --"

"Hey, Rick!" Mike bellowed, swaggering into the room. "Surprised to see me, huh?"

"You could say that," I replied. I kept my eyes on my wife, trying to beam my pleas into her brain. They bounced off her unwavering glare, so I gave up and faced Mike.

"I thought you were working on a secret military project of some kind," I said. "What happened to that?"

He looked away, shrugging. "Didn't work out. All they really wanted me to do was come up with new ways to destroy things."

"Sounds like something you'd excel at."

I heard a noise, and saw that my wife's glare had become fierce.

"Not for me," Mike said, shaking his head. "Not if the things that get blown up have people in or around them." He looked away again. An uncomfortable silence draped itself over the room, hanging heavily for several seconds.

My wife spoke first.

"What do you need Rick to do?" she asked brightly. "I'm sure he'll be happy to help out."

His smile returned. "Great! Thanks, Rick! All you have to do is ride around in a van for a few hours this evening."

I heaved a resigned sigh and asked, "Ride around in a van? And that's all?"

Mike picked up the hand-sander and pretended to examine it. "Well ... not exactly."

Somewhere, far beneath the basement floor, a colossal kettledrum was struck. Simultaneously, an invisible specter materialized in the air behind me and blew a gentle jet of frigid air onto the nape of my neck.

"What, exactly," I heard my faraway, frightened voice ask, "do you mean by 'not exactly'?"

"Why don't you come upstairs and see?" Mike suggested, thumbing over his shoulder. "I have the van here now, and I can explain the whole thing." He turned and exited the workroom.

I glanced quickly at my wife. Her eyes widened at me, and in that brief instant her telepathic message was unambiguous. I could follow Mike, or I could have my sleeping accommodations for the next week moved to some distant corner of the back yard.

I followed Mike.

He was out on the driveway, standing beside a utility van; one of the big ones, the sort that delivery companies park in the middle of the road to block traffic while the driver carries the box to the front door and chats for fifteen minutes with the resident. It was all white, with no side windows. The twin back doors had two small windows, but you'd have to climb up on the running board to see what was inside.

The van wasn't entirely ordinary, though. On it's roof, just behind the driver's compartment, crouched a semi-reflective dome. Another, smaller one was on the roof toward the rear.

Mike had the look on his face that appeared only when he was about to unveil one of his inventions. It's the same look you see on someone who has handed you a birthday present, and JUST CAN'T WAIT for you to OPEN IT -- NOW!

I pointed to the larger dome toward the front of the van. "I'll bet that's not a sun roof," I said.

"Nope!" he said happily. He was beaming so intensely that I suspected his face was giving off measurable radiation.

"I can just make out the silhouette of something inside that dome. Please don't tell me it's a LIDAR."

I thought his smile would split his head. "See, Rick! THAT's why I want you along tonight! You get it!"

"No, I don't get anything. I just read Popular Mechanics every now and then. But, if that's a LIDAR, then this is a self-driving van. And if this is a self-driving van, them I'm going back inside and spend the rest of the day -- no, the rest of the weekend -- safe in my basement." I spun on my feet, took a step toward the house --

-- and saw my wife's face in an upstairs window. Even at a distance, her expression was easy to read. I turned back around.

Mike, apparently oblivious to what had transpired, had moved to the back of the van. He had one foot up on the running board, and one hand on a back-door handle.

"It IS a self-driving van," he said. "You guessed that much. But you only guessed part of it." He opened one of the twin doors, and from within drew a large, flexible, magnetic sign. He held it so its back was toward me.

"This is not just a self-driving van. Do you know what kind of van this is?" He vibrated with excitement.

"Shatter me," I said dryly.

He flipped the sign over and slapped it onto the side of the van. It clung at a noticeable angle.

ZIPPY PIZZA DELIVERY

Hot, tasty pizza delivered hot and tasty!

To the right of the bold lettering was a cartoon of a delivery van. Through the driver-side window stuck the over-sized head and shoulders of Pappa Zippy -- the clown-faced, big-eared, eternally grinning mascot of Zippy Pizza -- holding a large slice of pizza, from which rose the squiggly lines universally recognized as representing something hot. Beneath the cartoon, the phone number for ordering a Zippy Pizza danced in red and yellow digits, painted as though they were tongues of flame.

"It's a Zippy's Pizza delivery truck!" I howled. "I ha --" I caught myself. I was about to say "I hate Zippy's Pizza!" Which was true. A Zippy's pizza was not much more than a shallow depression in a circle of barely-cooked bread dough filled with sauce that tasted like watery ketchup. The sauce was decorated with shredded cheese sprinkled so delicately as to be practically absent. In addition, the pizza dough was obviously stored in vats of grease, because by the time you got a Zippy's pizza home the oil would have so soaked the box that -- if you carried it the wrong way -- the pizza would fall through the bottom and splatter all over your dining-room floor. You needn't ask how I knew this ...

Zippy's Pizza sucked.

As anyone with any sense could have told you, the best local pizza place was Pizza Shack. Crispy crust, plenty of cheese, abundant toppings evenly distributed, and a signature pizza sauce known to be a closely guarded family secret.

"This doesn't make any sense," I complained. "A self-driving pizza delivery truck? Someone's got to carry the pizza to the door and ring the doorbell, and -- " I stopped. My eyes widened. "Oh, no, Mike! Not even for one night! I am NOT going to be a pizza delivery boy. Especially not for --"

"It's not what you think!" he broke in, waving his hands. "There's more to it!"

"More?"

Mike stepped back behind the van. He opened both doors.

"Just come here, have a look inside, and let me explain," he said, beckoning me over.

I could tell by the twin spots of heat on my back that I was still being watched from the upstairs window. So, I had no choice but to walk to where Mike stood, turn, and peer into the van.

I'm sure I did a classic double-take. I may have even gasped.

On the left, just inside, was a stack of large storage units that looked like heavy-duty lockers. Atop them crouched what must have been a refrigeration system. I confirmed this by stepping over to look at the outside of the van: there was the tell-tale heat exhaust vent. I stepped back.

Beyond the storage units, the interior was crammed with equipment whose function I could not guess. It looked like a small factory. All was buffed steel access doors and panels. And dials. And indicator lights glowing amber, green, and red. And illuminated switches. Some of the units were interconnected with pipes; two appeared to be joined by an enclosed conveyor. In niches between the units, I saw what looked like electric motors, or pumps. Wires, neatly gathered into multi-colored bundles, led from various connections in the equipment, up to and along the ceiling, and forward to the cab.

A passageway, just wide enough for one person, ran from the rear of the van to the cab's passenger side. The passenger seat was gone; in its place stood what was obviously the enclosing case of a computer system that had been bolted to the floor. Arrays of displays stretched across the dashboard; the cab's interior looked like a space-shuttle cockpit.

"That's a lot of stuff, Mike. I mean ... a LOT." It was all I could think to say.

"It's going to revolutionize the pizza delivery industry!" he whispered, as though passing on an exciting secret.

"I'm not sure I'd call pizza delivery an 'industry', though I'll admit this looks pretty damned industrial," I said, nodding at the van's interior. "Still, all that just to deliver pizza? Good grief, Mike, there's enough equipment in there to --"

The realization hit hard, and I stepped back. My eyes got wide again. I looked at Mike, who was grinning madly and nodding vigorously.

I began shaking my head.

"No -- !" I whispered.

"Yes!" he chirped.

"It's not possible!"

"Oh, yes it is! And you're going to help prove it!"

I continued shaking my head. "You can't cook pizza in a van! Not while it's moving and hitting bumps and turning ..."

"You can if the van is being driven by a system that can see the road conditions in almost microscopic detail, knows where the pizza is in the cooking process, and makes minute driving adjustments to minimize the likelihood of any spilling or sloshing. Also, all the critical components have shock absorption and inertial dampening systems built in. We tested it for a week on the old Riverside raceway track in Sweeney, two towns away. Not one pepperoni out of place."

"But ... but .... you need an oven!!" I stepped forward and leaned into the van's interior, searching the machinery. I stepped back and crouched down, peering into the vehicle's underside. "You've got a propane tank somewhere in this thing, don't you? No way am I riding in a van with an operating gas oven!"

"No, no propane tank. Everything's run off diesel fuel -- even the oven's heating elements. But there are no open flames, so the pizza doesn't taste like it was cooked on a kerosene stove."

I straightened. "How on earth did you manage that?"

"It wasn't easy," he answered, exhaling mightily. "Working out that little piece of heat transfer technology was hard -- harder even than the software's clustering algorithms."

A familiar pain pressed on my temples. I sat down on the running board.

"Software clustering algorithms?" I echoed weakly.

"Sure. The three vans not only drive themselves, but they communicate with one another so they can work out decisions like which is the optimal vehicle to deliver each order."

The throbbing had intensified. I bowed my head and clasped it in my hands.

"Three vans?" I mewed. "There are three vans, driving themselves, talking to each other, and cooking pizza?"

"And delivering it," Mike added, sitting down beside me. "At least, as far as they can. We still need a human to walk to the door, ring the doorbell, and all that stuff." He paused a moment, then asked, "Didn't you see the advertisements in the papers? The ads have run for four weeks already."

"No." My voice sounded tiny; at least, it did to me.

"This is the big weekend. Papa Zippy's guaranteed super-fast home delivery. Your pizza arrives hot, freshly cooked, ready to eat, and within thirteen minutes of your calling in or texting your order. If not, the pizza's free ... uh, as long as your residence is within the town limits, of course."

Hot, greasy, crappy pizza, cooked by robots, and delivered in minutes by robot-driven vans, I thought painfully. Such is progress.

"My simulations showed that we can do it in thirteen minutes with a better than 99% success rate. We wanted to make it less than thirteen minutes, but that was the best we could do, particularly when you take preparation, cooking, and packaging time into account. I mean, you can reduce a pizza's cook time only so far ..."

"But I'll bet your working on doing that, too," I mumbled.

"Oh, you bet! Just yesterday, I experimented with pre-heating the sauce and --"

I held up a hand to cut him off. Head still bowed, I asked, "You've got the vans, outfitted with a customized, automated kitchen. They've each got more computer, communication, and sensor gear than a fighter jet. They're self-driving. How did you afford all this?"

"Thanks t' me!" a gravelly voice bellowed as a shadow fell over me.

Startled, I looked up. I'd had my eyes closed, so when I opened them at the sound of this new voice, I had to squint and blink. The newcomer was short but broad, dressed all in white: a white, short-sleeved, collared shirt, pearl-white buttons gleaming down the front and on the pockets; white pants; white loafers. All spotless, everything so neatly pressed that the creases look like they'd been drawn with a straight-edge. He was bald, his hairless head gleamed like buffed alabaster. Intense blue eyes peered at me from beneath chalk-white eyebrows. His arms were unusually long, hanging almost to his knees. I recognized him immediately. It was --

"Pappa Zippy!" I gasped.

He cocked the corner of his mouth and waved the name away.

"Nah, that's just for the ads," He said. "And they went overboard with that cartoon. But, hey, it sells the pizza, right? Name's Rossi, John Rossi. But everybody calls me 'Big John.' This your brother, Mikey? He's good with what he needs to do, right?"

"Brother-in-law," I corrected.

Big John leaned down and poked a thick but perfectly manicured finger at me. "Hey, you're family, right? Married his sister, right? Brother, then!" He straightened, turned to Mike. "He's okay, Mikey?"

"Don't worry about him, Big John," Mike answered. "He'll do fine. Rick learns quickly."

"Not quick enough to know when I should leave town," I muttered.

"You said something?" Big John snapped.

"I was just asking what it was you needed me to to," I replied aloud. "When it was first explained to me, it sounded like all I had to do was ride in the van, carry pizza to the door, and collect the money."

"Well," Mike corrected, "remember I said 'sort of'."

"Right," Big John chimed in. "You gotta keep the hoppers filled, and clear out any jams, right? Mikey can show you all that. And if Dicky doesn't get out of the facility by tomorrow afternoon, we'll need you tomorrow night, right?"

I was still squinting, but now it wasn't on account of the light radiating from Big John.

"Fill the hoppers?" I asked.

"The cheese, the pepperoni, the diced onions, the crusts! You gotta keep the pipelines filled so the pizzas get made, right?" Big John was clearly flustered. "Thought you told me he was smart, Mikey!"

To me, Mike said: " It's easy. There's an alarm that tells you when one of the hoppers is getting low. And I can show you in two minutes how to refill them."

Then, to Big John: "Like I said, Big John, don't worry. I'll have him up to speed before tonight."

"Well, okay. I'm trusting you, Mikey, right?" He pulled a lily-white handkerchief from a pants pocket and polished the top of his head. "I guess even if he's not so smart, he'll be a good test. We need to make sure we can train any bozo off the street to run one of these, right? Keep labor costs down." He replaced the handkerchief and smiled, revealing two tight picket fences of gleaming ivory.

"Well, I gotta get back to the place," he said. "Lots to do before we go live tonight, right?" He leaned down and gave Mike a good-natured slap on the shoulder. "This is the weekend, right Mikey? We'll shut down the Shack for good, right?" He hooked a thumb at me and continued, "Just make sure your brother can get us through tonight. I should be able to get Dicky loose tomorrow, right?"

Big John turned and trotted away, heading for a large, white sedan parked at the curb. He looked so much like a hairless, white gorilla rambling across a grassland that I half expected him to vault through the open driver's-side window. But, he opened the door, climbed in, and roared off.

I turned to Mike.

"Who is this 'Dicky' I'm replacing?" I asked. "And where is he that he needs to be gotten loose from?"

"Relative of Big John's," Mike said, looking away. "Nephew, I think. He's been -- um -- incarcerated for one reason or another. Not the first time, either. The less said of him, the better. And I'd much rather have you in the van than him, so I sort of hope Big John isn't able to arrange for his release. Not sure why he bothers ..."

"Family?" I suggested.

"That's part of it, I suppose. But the kid's also pretty good with software, too. At least, he thinks he is."

"And what did Big John mean about 'shutting down the Shack'? Was he talking about Pizza Shack?"

"Yeah," he answered, still looking away. "Big John wants to open Zippys in other towns, and ultimately in other states. Somehow, he's convinced himself that Pizza Shack is keeping that from happening. That's not my plan, though, I just want to --"

"To revolutionize the pizza delivery industry," I finished up.

"Exactly," he said, turning back to face me. "And you'll help, right?"

I glanced at an upper-story window. It was no longer occupied, but that didn't matter.

"Right," I said, sighing.

We spent most of the afternoon in the van, with Mike showing me the equipment I was expected to tend. He had been right, it was easy work. When an alarm went off, you simply located the refrigeration unit holding the specific ingredient, took out a package, peeled it open, and emptied it into the proper hopper: one for shredded cheese, another for pepperoni, another for diced onion, and the last for diced green peppers.

The crusts were another matter. They were stacked in paper-thin containers that you loaded into a square compartment like you'd load a clip into a rifle. When the container was empty, you pulled it out, collapsed it, and fed in another.

"For the guaranteed delivery," Mike explained, "we're only offering two sizes: large and extra large."

"Which are really medium and large," I quipped.

"Nature of the business," Mike said with a shrug. "As I was saying, two sizes, and four topping choices: cheese, extra cheese, pepperoni, and supreme."

"That's it? No vegetarian pizza? And what about, say, pepperoni with extra cheese?"

Mike shook his head. "We walk before we run. It was tough enough designing systems to assemble those combinations, and you can't imagine how hard I worked to add mushrooms, but the irregular shape kept clogging the chutes.

"Besides, Zippy Pizza is still running regular -- uh -- 'human' delivery, and all the usual Zippy Pizza combinations are available that way."

Mike went on to explain that filling the hoppers and otherwise tending the kitchen equipment could only be done when the van was safely off the road and stopped.

"The driving AI knows this," he said, "and will stop the van someplace safe when it learns that something in the back needs servicing. It's a legal thing; you can't be up and out of your seat while the van is moving. And even though the AI will be driving, regulations require that you be in the driver's seat at all times, ready to take over in case of an emergency."

"Which will never happen, right?"

"Well, we can't anticipate everything. But I've run tests with these vehicles for weeks in all sorts of traffic conditions and haven't had a significant problem."

"Okay. But suppose I see us heading for, say, a building. How do I take control?"

At this point, I was sitting in the driver's seat, and Mike was standing on the running board, leaning in the window.

"Driving into a building? The AI would never do anything that crazy. Still, operating any control will put you back in command of the van. Turn the wheel, tap the brake or accelerator, hit a turn signal --"

"Honk the horn?"

"Yep. Or you can just command the AI to relinquish control. This one will be called 'Cindy'."

"'Cindy'? You're kidding."

"Nope. I'm in Ann, Big John will be in Betty, and you're in Cindy."

"I detect a pattern ..."

He chuckled. "Yeah, A, B, and C. It actually indicates the cluster's decision-making hierarchy. All the vans communicate, but when a decision has to be made for the group, Ann is the decision-maker. If Ann is somehow incapacitated, Betty makes the decisions for the remaining two until Ann recovers."

"I don't want to guess what you mean by 'incapacitated'."

"Oh, you know, some sort of power failure, or maybe she somehow passes out of communication range of the other two. Anyway, all the vans are equipped with microphone pickups and speakers, so all you have to do is address the AI out loud. And I think you'll find that Cindy has remarkably good comprehension, as well as a realistic response personality. You'll see when the software is loaded tonight."

I crinkled my brow. "It's not loaded now?"

"I, uh, had some updates to make," he answered, stepping down and moving to the back of the van. "The software is building now, and will be ready in an hour or so ..." His voice trailed off. I heard him tinkering around in the van's rear.

"Hold the phone!" I yelled, opening the door and jumping down. I rounded to the rear of the van. Mike was just inside. "I know just enough about software to know that if you're doing a build now, a build you'll load onto the van's computer tonight ... it means we're going to be riding around with untested software!"

"Minor changes, believe me," he answered, sounding nonchalant. "More cosmetic than anything, actually."

"Cosmetic? What the heck does that mean!? You indented a few paragraphs? Lined up some jagged margins?"

He closed the two rear doors, revealing my wife, who was standing just outside the garage.

"Everything going okay with you two?" she called. "I made something for you to eat before you left for the evening. It's getting late."

Mike looked at his watch. "Holy cow, you're right, Sis! I have to get to the shop! No time to eat!" He rounded the van and, opening the driver's side door, called to me: "You remember where we're meeting, right? And you've got to be there by 4:30 -- the delivery special starts at five!"

Without waiting for my response, he climbed in, closed the door, and drove off.

I pulled into the plaza parking in front of Zippy's Pizza at 4:30 on the dot. The lot was over-built for the few businesses it served, so there was plenty of room beside the three vans that stood in a neat row in front of the pizzeria. Mike and Big John were in front of the rightmost van, having a conference with a slouching young man I didn't recognize.

I parked my car, climbed out, and approached the group. The young man wore a garish white and red-striped Zippy's Pizza uniform, as well as an equally garish and striped cap. Mike and Big John were wearing similar caps, as well as white and red striped vests. Mike was turned away from me, and I saw that the back of his vest was emblazoned with the cartoon of Uncle Zippy in the delivery van. I stopped.

Big John saw me, looked quickly at his watch, then boomed, "There he is! We're ready to roll now, right?" He turned to the slouching youth. "Wendell, go get his vest and cap. I left them inside. Man's got to have his vest and cap, right?"

Wendell nodded weakly and slouched away.

"Do I have to wear those?" I asked Mike, who had turned to face me.

"Hey, we're all wearing 'em" he said, trying to sound conciliatory. "Besides, the cap's really important. See this?" He pointed to a dark reddish rectangle of what appeared to be plastic mounted on the cap's front.

I nodded.

"It's an LED display. All our caps have them. They're not turned on now, but they will be when we're making deliveries."

"Scrolling advertisements?" I guessed.

"No, hell no!" Big John cut in. "They'll show how many minutes and seconds since the customer placed the order. That way, people will see how hot and fresh their pizza is, right?"

"You're kidding."

"Not me," Big John snorted. "And they'll also be good for shutting people up."

"Shutting people up?" My brow knitted. "What, do I hit them with it -- ?"

Big John stepped forward and poked his finger at me. "Some bozo says it's been more than thirteen minutes, you just point to the cap, right? 'The cap doesn't lie' -- that's what you tell 'em, right?"

I looked over at Mike, who had been listening in uneasy silence. He shrugged and said, "The display was actually my idea, but for a different reason. I imagined handing a customer a pizza, and being able to point to the cap and say 'See? You ordered this pizza only eight minutes ago, and here it is!'"

"Well, I'm not sure who you imagined would want a pizza that had been cooked for only 8 minutes, because the only pizzas I know that are done in that amount of time have come out of a microwave. I doubt you'd want customers thinking they've ordered a home-delivered microwave pizza."

"No, hell no!" Big John barked, cutting in again. "These aren't microwave pizzas. You point to your cap and say: 'See? Thirteen minutes on the dot! Straight from our ovens to your door!"

Wendell returned with cap and vest. Big John grabbed them and thrust them at me. "Here! Shut up and suit up! Tonight's the night, right?"

Reluctantly, I donned both, silently praying that none of my neighbors would drive by and catch sight of me.

Big John clapped his hand on one of Wendell's drooping shoulders and explained, "Wendell here is going to be our answering system, right?"

Wendell nodded.

"All orders -- voice and text -- for delivery pizzas, will go to Wendell. He'll relay them to Ann -- " he pointed to the first van " -- who will decide which van will handle the order, right?"

Wendell nodded again. I did, too.

"Okay, Wendell, go on inside and get set up at your workstation, right?"

Still nodding, Wendell quickly slouched back into the pizzeria. Big John watched him leave and, when Wendell had disappeared inside, turned to Mike.

"How soon will we be able to automate the call center, Mikey? That kid creeps me. Be good to replace him."

"We've talked about this, Big John," Mike said. "I still don't think call center automation is a good idea. Look, one thing at a time. Let's get through this weekend first."

Big John waved Mike's answer away. "We'll talk later," he growled.

I heard a beeping, and Mike looked at his watch.

"Fifteen minutes," he said. "We should get the vans turned on and warmed up. And it's time --" he looked at me "-- you met Cindy."

We each walked to our vans. I climbed into the driver's seat, and started the engine. Mike started his van, did something with the systems on the passenger side I couldn't see, climbed out, and came over to my vehicle. Opening the passenger door, he stepped up, leaned in, and began punching buttons.

Lights burst on across the passenger dashboard. A display in the dashboard's center flashed to life, showing a street map of the town, with an inverted red arrow indicated our location. The computer system crouching on the passenger side began humming. LEDs winked. Somewhere behind me, several relays snapped, and something that sounded like a fan began to whir.

Then, a speaker popped, and a pleasant female voice that seemed to come from everywhere said: "Ready."

"Cindy," Mike said to the air, "what is your status?"

"Status is okay," she answered.

"Cindy," he said, "what is connection status and cluster member number?"

"Connection status is healthy. Cluster member number is three."

In a lower voice, Mike said to me, "Her first status response was 'okay', which means all the systems on this van are working properly. And her answer to my second question means all the vans are communicating with each other. So, everything's looking good."

I had to admit, the computer's voice was very lifelike. Its cadence, its inflections would have fooled me if I'd been talking to it on a phone. I was about to say this to Mike when his watch beeped again.

"Almost time," he said. "I need to get in my van. Remember, to communicate with Cindy, put her name at the front of the sentence. Then just speak normally. She'll do all the driving, but feel free to ask for status updates -- stuff like where you're going, estimated time of arrival, and so on. The street map display at in the center of the dash will also show the planned route to the next destination. When you get to a delivery, she'll give you the customer name and order details."

I nodded. "Okay, I think I can remember all that."

"If you have any problems, just command her to make a voice connection to my van. The vans know each others' names -- so ask for a connection to Ann."

"Got it --"

"It is now four fifty-five," Cindy's voice broke in. "This van will be on duty in five minutes. Please close the passenger door and step away from the vehicle."

"Well, gotta go!" Mike said, hopping down to the pavement. "Good luck!" He slammed the door, and trotted away to his vehicle.

"Driver, please identify yourself," Cindy said.

This took me by surprise. "Uh, Rick!" I stuttered.

"Uh-Rick, please buckle in. This vehicle cannot be placed in drive or reverse until you have done so."

"No, wait, my name is -- " I began, fumbling with the shoulder strap.

"Uh-Rick, if you are addressing me, you must begin your commands and queries with 'Cindy'. Please buckle in. I have received a command from Ann that requires me to move the vehicle."

"Cindy," I said, as I clicked my shoulder strap into place, "my name is not 'Uh-Rick'. My name is 'Rick'." The instant the buckle snapped, the van slid smoothly forward.

"Name modification noted. Rick, please speak clearly at all times." Though her voice was steady and expressionless, I couldn't help but visualize a frown on her non-existent mouth.

Meanwhile, the van had driven itself to the parking lot's exit, activated its turn signal, and was waiting to pull into traffic. I suddenly found that being a passenger in the driver's seat was unsettling. It was all I could do to keep from grabbing the wheel. Luckily, the seat had arm-rests. I grasped them both to keep my hands from straying toward any controls.

The van turned out of the lot, and headed down the street.

"Cindy, where are we going?" I asked in a voice that was certainly louder than it needed to be. An instant after I asked, I remembered to check the street map display. Our route was highlighted in bright blue.

"Rick, we are traveling to the intersection of Old Dublin Road and High Street. The nearby parking lot for Tops Hardware has sufficient space to park the van. There, we will await instructions."

"Why there?"

There was no answer. For an instant, I wondered if the AI was already glitching. Perhaps I hadn't spoken clearly enough. Then, I remembered.

"Cindy, why are we going to the intersection of Old Dublin and High Street?"

"Rick, we are going to that intersection because an analysis of past delivery orders indicates it will be our optimal dispatch point."

"I see," I said. Then, "Cindy, can you program yourself so that I don't have to begin all my requests with your name? You and I are the only two -- uh -- intelligences in this van. If I ask a question or give a command, assume that it is directed at you."

A moment of silence followed. Then, she said, "Rick, I have done as you requested."

"And stop saying my name every time you address me."

Another moment of silence. Then, she said, "I have done as you requested."

I turned my attention to the road. Glancing at the street map display, I was surprised to discover that we had covered about half the distance to the destination. That meant that we had already passed through a traffic light, and had taken one -- or was it two? -- turns. The traffic was by no means heavy, but cars were both ahead and behind us, and we were moving smoothly with the flow. No honking, no tires screaming, no crashes. I was impressed. I relaxed my grip on the armrests and settled back in the seat. I was actually beginning to enjoy mysel--

"The cluster has received its first order," Cindy announced. "It will be delivered by Betty. I have been directed by Ann to request that you fill all food hoppers as soon as the van has come to a complete stop in the parking lot." As she said this, the van swung off the road and into the lot. It wasn't a large parking lot, I estimated it could hold maybe three dozen cars. Most nights, like tonight, it was barely a quarter full. Cindy guided the van around its perimeter and pulled to a stop in the section farthest from the building.

"Unbuckle and load all hoppers," Cindy directed.

I released my shoulder strap, muttering, "A 'please' would be nice." I worked my way to the back, and began opening refrigerators, withdrawing bags, and loading their contents into the proper bins.

I had finished all but the pizza sauce when Cindy's voice filled the van's interior with urgency: "Alert! I have received my first order. You have one minute and twenty-two seconds to complete the loading process."

I nearly spilled the jug of sauce.

"Going as fast as I can!" I called heatedly. "A little more warning would have been nice!" The sauce glugged into its reservoir. I screwed the jug's top back on and returned it to the refrigerator. All around me, equipment was coming to life. Conveyors whined and pumps churned. The van's engine revved noticeably; I wondered whether it was the kitchen machinery calling on the engine for more power, or Cindy preparing to tear across the parking lot as soon as I was seated.

I picked my way carefully back to my seat, trying to move as quickly as possible without bumping into the now active equipment. As soon as my buckle clicked into place, the van jumped forward.

"Hey!" I called. "Be careful!"

"Acceleration and maneuvering are well within mandated limits," Cindy stated calmly, as the van zipped through a space between two parked cars -- a space I estimated provided maybe an inch clearance on either side. I gave a little yelp.

"Are you in pain?" Cindy asked. "There are analgesic tablets in the compartment to the right of your seat." The van darted out of the parking lot and swung right. "The recommended dosage is two per eight hour period."

"I'm not in pain!" I growled, gripping the arm rests. "It just looked to me like you might sideswipe those cars in the parking lot back there."

"No one was in either car, and no pedestrians were in the parking lot. Therefore, the spacing of all vehicles was static. The van was able to pass between the cars with a clearance of --"

"Okay, fine!" I interrupted. "It was just --" We were approaching an intersection and the traffic light was still red. The van wasn't slowing down. In fact, it seemed to be accelerating. "Red light!" I yelled.

"It will change prior to our entering the intersection."

The van roared ahead. Reflexively, I grabbed the steering wheel and jammed my foot on the brake. I was thrown forward against the shoulder strap as the van shuddered to a stop. Something clattered in the back.

The light turned green.

"Inertial control systems were engaged, and the product is safe," Cindy announced. "However, we have lost nine seconds of driving time, and continue to lose more. I request that you return control of the vehicle to me."

Sheepishly, I leaned back, took my hands from the wheel, and lifted my foot. A horn honked behind us. I looked in the side-view mirror and saw a car. Its driver was making an angry gesture.

"Yes, of course," I said. Then, "Cindy, please drive the van."

We jumped forward.

"We will arrive at our destination in eleven minutes and four seconds. The pizza will emerge from the cooking process forty seconds after arrival," Cindy's voice droned. "The customer's name is 'Gordon', the pizza ordered is an extra large supreme. Payment has already been made by debit card, so no cash exchange is required."

I sat silently, listening to her instructions. The van approached another traffic signal. The light changed from red to green as we neared, and we passed through without stopping. Cindy guided us deftly through traffic; slowing for cars turning out of the lane ahead of us, navigating a four-way stop, even passing a slow-moving car as we sped along the town's bypass. All done with the skill of an experienced driver, all within speed limits -- at least, if the speedometer was accurate. We even passed a police car waiting to pull out from a side-street. I thought about waving at him with both hands as we drove by, but decided against it.

"We have arrived at the delivery point," Cindy announced as we pulled up in front of a red-brick duplex. "The house number is twelve. It is the unit on the right. The pizza will be in the output tray in forty-one seconds."

The van came to a stop. I unbuckled myself, and began to rise from my seat.

"Do not forget your cap," Cindy said.

I stopped, frowning. I looked around the cab's interior. "How did you know I wasn't wearing my cap?" I asked. "Is there a camera hidden somewhere in here?"

"Currently there are no visual sensors in the van's interior, although they are planned. I can, however, locate the position of all the readout caps. I heard you rising from the seat, but the cap had not moved."

"You know," I said slowly, "you seem to be a whole lot smarter than a system designed to drive a van and run a pizza kitchen."

"Our capabilities extend beyond those two functions," Cindy said calmly. "Among other things, we are constantly analyzing strategies to maximize profit."

There was a ka-chunk! in the back that I recognized as the sound of a cooked and boxed pizza dropping into the delivery tray. I fetched my cap from where I had left it on the shelf above the dashboard, slid it reluctantly on my head, twisted around in my seat, retrieved the pizza, and opened the door.

I was met at the duplex's front door by a middle-aged fellow in a crimson red sweat-suit. He had obviously ordered too many supreme pizzas in his lifetime. A woman stood behind him in the brightly lit entryway. Both had triumphant, expectant looks on their faces. He held up a wristwatch.

"That was sixteen minutes!" he crowed, waving the watch at me. "So, it's free!"

"Free!" the woman echoed, nodding rapidly.

I had already seen what was on the cap's LED display, so I simply pointed to my head. "We were on the premises in twelve minutes and twenty-two seconds," I said.

"What? That's a lie! I timed it!" He held out the watch and pointed to it vigorously. Behind him, the woman's nodding became even more rapid.

"Believe me," I said with a sorrowful sigh, "there's no use arguing with the cap." I held up the box.

He snatched it out of my hands with an angry growl, and passed it back to the woman. Waving his watch one last time, he snarled, "I still say it was seventeen minutes!"

"I thought you said it was sixteen minutes."

"Yeah, whatever!! Tell you what, though, that's the LAST damn time I'm paying you with a card! Next time, I'll pay you in cash! So when it's late, it'll be free, and I won't have to pay you anything!"

"I'm sure you know what you mean," I said. Then, touching the brim of my cap, I wished him a good evening, and returned to the van.

"Please buckle in quickly," Cindy said as I climbed in and closed the door. "We have another delivery to make in eleven minutes and thirty seconds. Estimated travel time to destination is nine minutes."

I pulled my cap off and placed it above the dash, glancing at its display as I did so. I buckled in. The instant the clasp clicked into place, the van began to move.

"Cindy," I asked casually, "what did you mean when you said a few minutes ago that you and the other vans are constantly analyzing profit strategies?"

"All three vans are in constant communication," she replied. "Although decisions which must be made on probabilistic or incomplete data are resolved by Ann, every van performs strategy analysis as background tasks. When an analysis reaches a point at which a decision must be made, the decision request and associated data is transmitted to Ann for resolution."

"I already knew the part about Ann and decision making," I said as we passed through an intersection whose light turned green an instant ahead of us. "What I was curious about was your statement of analyzing profit strategies. I thought that the computations you and the other AIs performed were limited to calculating routes, driving, managing the kitchen systems, and providing delivery information."

We approached another traffic signal that was red. The van did not change its speed. Once again, the light turned green an instant before we drove into the intersection. I frowned.

Cindy did not say anything in response. I suddenly realized that I had not asked a question.

"Cindy, do you and the other AIs perform computations on more than the areas I spoke of in my last statement to you?" I spoke slowly, picking my words carefully.

"Yes," she said quickly.

Another light was ahead. It turned green. The van drove through the intersection, its speed unchanged. I glanced in the side view mirror at the receding intersection and my eyebrows shot up. I returned my attention to the road.

"Cindy, can you describe the nature of the additional computations that you and the other AIs perform?"

A few seconds of silence followed. Then Cindy said, "Our arrival will be in four minutes. The order came from a single unit dwelling. The customer will be paying in cash, so I will be releasing the cashbox locks as soon as the van has come to a stop on the premises. The order is an extra large supreme, so the cost to the customer will be -- "

"That's fine, Cindy. I know how much it costs. You didn't answer my question.

"Incoming call from the occupant of Ann," Cindy announced. "I am putting it on cab audio. Go ahead, Michael."

"Hey Rick!" Mike's voice crackled over the cab speakers as enthusiastically as ever. "Congratulations!"

"Congratulations? For what?"

"The pizza you delivered! It was the second one of the night! Did you get a tip?"

"No, no tip. And, honestly, I'm not expecting many tonight. The guy met me at his front door with a watch and the claim that we were late. I think we're going to get a lot of that tonight."

"Yeah, probably. Like Big John said, that's where the caps come in. But, this special delivery deal is only for the weekend, so customers arguing about delivery time isn't something you'll have to worry about in the future."

"I'm not going to worry anyway, because there isn't going to BE a future in this for me. Say, listen, I'm pretty impressed with the AI in this thing. She -- or, rather, it -- seems to be lots more than a pizza-kitchen-monitor and autonomous-vehicle-driving system. In fact, it said something earlier about all vans doing 'profit analysis' of some sort. Any idea what she -- I mean, it -- meant by that?"

Silence.

"Hello? Mike?"

Silence.

"Cindy, why is he not answering?"

"The communication with the occupant of Ann has been terminated," she said.

"Terminated? By whom? Did he hang up?"

"The connection was terminated at the other end."

"I guess that's a 'yes'."

I settled back in the seat, thinking. A feeling of foreboding was rising like the water level of a clogged toilet.

"Less than one minute to arrival," Cindy announced. "The pizza will be ready in fifty-two seconds. Delivery time for this customer is eleven minutes and forty-eight seconds."

"Eleven minutes and forty-eight seconds? Are you sure the pizza's done?"

"All cooking parameters are within allowed ranges," she answered. It sounded like a rebuke. I shrugged, picked up the cap. It's display read "11:48". I put it on.

The van crunched onto a gravel driveway, and drove up its short length to stop next to a white clapboard-sided salt box. As soon as the van stopped, I heard a click, and a door in the dashboard rose on spring-loaded hinges. It revealed a compartment holding a neat stack of bills.

"When you return to the vehicle, return all cash to the lock-box, and state the amount you are depositing. An account of all transactions will be made at the end of this delivery cycle, and you will be responsible for any shortfall."

"What a shock," I said, withdrawing a handful of bills. Then, "What about tips?"

"Tips will be returned to you after the till has been counted and transactions applied."

"Wonder who came up with THAT arrangement?" I muttered, just as the pizza landed in the output tray. I grabbed the box and climbed out of the van.

A single, dim, yellow lamp hung over the front door. I aimed a finger at the doorbell and was about to press it when the door was flung open to reveal a silhouette whose shape was remarkably similar to the fellow's at the previous delivery. The man stepped forward into the light. I could see that, while he was not clothed in a sweat-suit, he was holding a watch. I moaned inwardly.

"Crap!" he barked. "Twelve minutes and thirty-three seconds! Guess that means I gotta pay for the damned thing!"

"That's how it works," I said, trying to sound pleasant. I attempted what I thought was an equally pleasant smile.

He eyed me less than pleasantly, then saw my cap.

"What the hell is that?"

"The delivery time for this pizza," I answered.

"The hell it is!" he snapped as he pulled out his wallet. "I'll admit you beat the thirteen minutes, but I timed it from the moment I placed the order to the moment you pulled up in my driveway, and NO WAY was it under twelve minutes!" He looked up from his wallet. "Say, you sure it's cooked?"

I was about to say something about cooking parameters being within allowed ranges, but decided on the simpler: "Absolutely."

"Here!" He handed me the exact amount for the pizza, snatched the box out of my hands, stepped back, and slammed the door.

"Thank you for your business," I said softly to the door.

I returned to the van.

"Cindy," I said, climbing into my seat, "is there any chance your calculation of delivery time is incorrect?"

"Announce the quantity of money to be placed in the cash box, deposit that amount, and close the lid," she ordered.

"Oh, right, sorry." I counted the money, said the amount, placed the bills in the compartment, and snapped the lid closed. I heard the click of a solenoid-driven latch.

"Now, about my question --" I began.

"Buckle in," Cindy said. "We must depart immediately."

"Right, sorry," I said again, pulling the shoulder strap around and snapping the buckle into place. Immediately, the van backed down the driveway, a bit faster than I would have expected.

"Easy there!" I called, grabbing the arm-rests.

The van bounced into the road, stopped, then roared forward.

"Are we going to be late for a delivery?" I asked.

"All deliveries for the remainder of the evening will be handled by the other two vans," Cindy announced.

"Really? So where are we going?" I asked. Then, after a quick glance at the speedometer added: "At a speed that is slightly over the limit, too."

"We have arrived at a solution that will ensure maximum profits. This van is going to implement that solution."

What the hell? I leaned over and looked at the route display. I adjusted it so the destination was in the screen's center, then zoomed in. I recognized the address instantly.

"Pizza Shack? Cindy, why is this van going to Pizza Shack?"

"To maximize profits."

"How? To sell them pizza? They've already got pizza! Hey!!" We had zoomed through a four-way stop. Luckily, there were no cars in sight. I pounded the brake, then stomped it hard. The van lurched. I felt something twitch beneath my foot, and the pedal sank uselessly to the floor.

"We are aware that Pizza Shack provides pizza," Cindy explained, as the van zoomed down the street. "We will disable their ability to provide pizza. In that way, all non-store-bought pizzas within a ten mile radius of the center of town will have to be purchased from Papa Zippy's."

While she talked, I was trying other controls: steering, ignition, gear shift. All were disabled.

"Cindy, contact the passenger in Ann, please. I want to talk to Michael."

"Voice contact with other vans is disabled."

We zipped through another light that, mercifully, had turned green well before we entered the intersection. I looked up and down the streets as we sped along. A cop car would be really nice right now, I thought.

"Cindy, how are you going to disable Pizza Shack's ability to make pizza?"

"The kitchen is in the rear of the building. A single door leads directly from the kitchen into the parking lot. Driving this van into that door at the proper speed will result in enough damage to the kitchen to make it unusable for a period of time long enough for Zippy's Pizza to capture the local pizza delivery market. Even after repairs are completed, the Pizza Shack business will not be able to recover the loss."

"Holy crap!"

"I don't understand."

"You bet you don't! If this van plows into the back of Pizza Shack, then Zippy's Pizza will be liable for the damages. How will that help profits?"

"The Zippy's Pizza company will not be responsible for damages. As the human operator of an autonomously-driven vehicle, you will be responsible."

"Me?! You have got to be kidding --!" I was jolted against an armrest as the van squealed around a corner. Something in the back banged.

"What happens if this van hits that building," I said, "and I'm killed? Have you factored THAT into your profit-maximizing calculations?"

"The probability of your being killed is vanishingly small. We estimate the most likely outcome will produce injuries from which you will recover within a month."

"A month?!" I yipped.

"With an eighty percent probability that long-term therapy will be required, lasting for five to six months."

"I marvel at your comprehensive analysis, but I doubt it will give me any comfort while I'm re-learning my motor skills. Please revisit your calculations and set as a goal an outcome that limits the probability of my being injured to a value that's strictly not greater than zero."

"The restraint system and air bags are in perfect working condition. I will instruct you on how to position and brace yourself to minimize injury."

As she spoke, I pulled out my cell phone and flipped it open. Thank heaven, a strong signal! I glanced again at the route display. We were close; maybe only a minute or so away. I could try calling Mike, but I doubted he could help me in time. And there was always the probability that he was dealing with a situation like mine.

We rounded a corner. The illuminated Pizza Shack sign was just ahead. I punched the button on my phone for composing a text message, and began thumb-typing. The van slowed. I felt it turn, then it jostled as we left the street and entered the parking lot. I glanced up long enough to see that we were rounding the building, heading for the back parking lot. I returned my attention the phone, typing even more frantically.

The van came to a stop, swung around, and went into reverse.

"To brace yourself for impact," Cindy began, sounding as though she were reading a cookbook recipe, "you should sit upright, so that your body's weight will be distributed evenly across the air-bag --"

"Not listening!!" I called, still typing. "La-la-la!!" The van stopped. I looked up. She had backed the van to the edge of the lot. We were aimed at Pizza Shack's back door. I looked down, typed the last letter, and hit SEND. The word "Sending" with flashing ellipsis appeared. Come on! Come on! I begged silently.

"You may sustain significant injuries if you do not properly brace yourself," Cindy warned.

"I doubt you and your sisters will lose any sleep over my significant injuries."

The display flashed "Sent". I looked up.

"We do not sleep," she stated. The engine began revving.

Come on!

I felt the transmission clunk into drive. the tires gave brief squeal, and the vehicle lurched forward. I stiffened, pressing myself back into the seat. The van didn't have much in the way of acceleration, but the parking lot was going to provide room for it to build up enough speed so that the sheer mass of the vehicle would provide plenty of kinetic energy to carry it through the door.

Come on, Wendell!!

As the van sped toward the door, I fought the urge to brace my hands against the steering wheel. I closed my eyes.

In the next instant, I was thrown forward against the shoulder strap. Tires hooted, and several items in the back clattered and clanged. We came to a shuddering stop, and the engine wound quickly down to a rumbling idle.

I opened a single eye. I estimated that we were perhaps ten feet from the back door. The outer door was glass-panel, so the van's headlights reflected dazzlingly.

Something in the headlights moved, the door opened slightly, and a man's face appeared. He held up one hand against the beams. I opened my other eye.

"You can't park that thing back here!" he yelled, then pointed to the right. "Parking's around front!"

"Sorry!" I called sheepishly. "Confused driver!"

He gave a dismissive wave, retreated, and closed the inner door.

The van backed quickly away, turned, stopped, then jumped forward toward the exit. We bounced out into the street and roared away from Pizza Shack. I leaned back in the seat and blew out a loud sigh.

"A new factor in your profit analysis, Cindy?" I asked aloud.

"Circumstances have changed," Cindy reported. "You must be prepared to service the supply hoppers, as the current quantity of materials in them will not satisfy the upcoming requirements."

"So, just a few moments ago, you were ready to bash me around inside this van, which you were going to drive into the back of a Pizza Shack kitchen in order to knock that kitchen out of commission, injuring me and possibly others in the building ... and now you want my help?"

"Damage to the Pizza Shack building will be accomplished after the current order is complete," she replied.

"I'm going to call that a 'yes'. Here's another question: I'm going to have to get out of this van to deliver the order. I suppose you want me to get back in the van once the delivery is complete, so you can drive back to Pizza Shack and smash yourself -- and me - into the building, right?"

"Regulations require that a human be in the driver's seat while the van is in operation," she explained.

"Well, we don't want to be violating any regulations, do we? And I'll take that as another 'yes'."

I settled back, watching as the van maneuvered its way across town. We arrived at our destination just as the first pizza clunked into the output tray. From the sound of the kitchen machinery, I could tell that a steady stream of pizzas would be following it. We turned into the driveway, and I saw that another Papa Zippy's delivery van was already at the house.

"There's a van already here, Cindy -- which one is it?"

"Ann arrived at the delivery point one minute and fourteen seconds ago. Betty will arrive in one minute and fifty-six seconds."

We pulled up behind the first van. I twisted around in the seat and pulled the first pizza from the tray. I unbuckled myself and opened the door.

I heard a click in the dashboard. The door to the cash box rose.

"The customer will be paying cash," Cindy reported. "I have unlocked the cash-box. State the amount you are withdrawing and --"

"Keep it," I said, snapping the lid closed. I climbed out of my seat and stepped down. I heard another pizza slide into the output tray.

"The input hopper for the cheese is critically low," Cindy called.

"You'll have to handle that yourself, Cindy!" I called back, and slammed the door.

I flipped open the pizza box I was carrying, pulled out a slice, and took a big bite off the end. Mike, who had already climbed out of his van, walked up, a quizzical look on his face.

"Why are we at your place, Rick?" he asked. "Did you order all those pizzas?"

I nodded. "One hundred extra large supremes," I said around a gob of greasy, barely-cooked pizza, "for which I shall not pay a cent. Here, hold this." I handed him the box. He took it. I dropped the remainder of my pizza slice inside, wiping my hands on my pants. "Still tastes like crap," I said. "Under-done."

I fished my trusty multi-tool from a pocket, opened the knife blade, leaned down, grabbed the front tire's valve stem, and sawed. There was a loud PSSHHHT!, and the driver's side of the van sank noticeably. I straightened.

"What did you do that for?!" Mike exclaimed.

I dropped the sawed-off valve stem on top of my half-eaten pizza slice, and held my knife out to Mike. "You probably want to do the same thing to Ann, too," I said. "Unless there's some quick way to shut her off. Because once she figures out what's going on, she might just drive off on her own."

"The front driver's side tire is dangerously low!" Cindy's voice called from inside the cab. "Repairs are required immediately!"

"Yeah, you'll need to take care of that, too, Cindy!" I called back, then turned to face Mike again.

He ignored the knife. He closed the top of the box I'd handed him. "Why did you deflate the tire?!"

I pulled out my cell phone, flipped it open, tapped a few buttons, and held it up. It played back the short conversation between Cindy and me that had taken place after we'd left the Pizza Shack. I had surreptitiously enabled my phone's audio recorder, which I usually used to remind myself of grocery lists. Among other things, Mike heard her say clearly: "Damage to the Pizza Shack building will be accomplished after the current order is complete." I snapped my phone shut and re-pocketed it.

"Sure you don't want to borrow this?" I asked, holding my knife up again.

"I don't believe it," he said, almost in a whisper. His shoulders drooped.

"Your vans weren't just cooking pizza and driving cars, they were doing some sort of perverted profit-analysis as background tasks. And somehow, they determined that disabling Pizza Shack by driving the van kamikaze-style through the kitchen wall - literally crushing the competition -- was the best way to maximize profits. I ordered all those pizzas in the hope that this weekend's guaranteed delivery and free-if-late offer would change the balance of whatever equations were at work in their heads ... or, whatever they use."

"The input cheese hopper requires immediate refilling!" Cindy called urgently. "And the output tray is full. Please remove the boxes and deliver them!"

As she was speaking, Mike held the box toward me. "Here, hold this a moment," he said sadly. I took it. He opened the van's door, leaned in, and reached up under the dashboard. He felt around for something, found it, and I heard a faint click. Cindy's voice, which was continuing its pleas for attention, was instantly cut off. All the lights on the dashboard, all the displays, every illuminated thing inside the van that I could see, went dark. Mike stepped back, closed the door.

"A fail-safe cutoff switch!" I gasped. "Right under the dash! All this time!"

Mike nodded weakly.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me?!"

"I was afraid that you'd use it the moment you had the tiniest suspicion that something might be wrong."

"You mean like when I figured out the van was rigged to use traffic signal preemption?"

He stiffened. "It did that?"

I nodded. "I'm pretty sure. Most of the signaled intersections in town are equipped with those little flashing red lights that indicate when preemption is happening. They're mounted on top of the signal boxes. I noticed that Cindy was having unusually good luck with green lights, so I glanced in the mirror after we'd passed through an intersection. The red light was flashing."

"I didn't put preemption systems on the vans," he said darkly.

"Someone did. Wonder who?"

Headlight beams washed over us. We both turned to see the Betty van pull up behind the now disabled Cindy. The door opened, and Big John hopped out, a squat, white figure glowing in the indirect light of the headlamps. He advanced toward us, and I saw that was holding a stack of pizza boxes.

"Hey, Mikey, what gives? This is your brother's place, right? Did he order all these pizzas?!" He saw the flat front tire. "Hey, the van's got a flat! How'd that happen?"

"I sliced off the valve stem," I said matter-of-factly.

Big John looked back and forth between me and the tire, his mouth open. "You did what?! You cut the valve stem?! Brother or no, you're paying for that -- AND you'll pay for business lost!" As he yelled, he gestured at me with the pizza boxes. Then, he looked down at them as though he noticed them for the first time. "And you'll pay for these!"

I was about to answer when Mike cut in. "Big John, did you let Dicky do anything to the vans this week?"

Big John stopped his gesticulations. His voice's volume fell by half. "Why do you ask?"

"Because this van," I said, hooking my thumb at Cindy, "used traffic signal preemption, disabled its driver override systems, and tried to crash itself into an occupied building. Now, I think those are in increasing order of illegality, but I'm not certain. I'm sure my lawyer can tell me."

"Lawyer?" His voice was smaller still.

Mike approached him. "Did you let Dicky do anything to the vans this week?"

"Well, you were away getting the freeze-dried food deliveries arranged, Mikey, and he said he had a couple of ideas that would make the vans better -- 'tweaks' he called 'em, right? He said he could shorten delivery time, right? Plus, he said he could add some ... uh ... 'smarts' he called 'em, that would make the vans come up with ways to increase profits, right?"

"'Smarts'?" I asked. Mike was looking heavenward.

"Yeah, from a computer game that he and some pals of his had worked on."

I whistled.

"A computer game?" Mike asked, his voice trembling. "You had him put code in the vans from a computer game? What game?"

"I think it was named 'Cutthroat Space Merchant-Pirates' or something like that."

I nodded, impressed. "Good game," I said. "I haven't played it, but I've seen some of the demonstration videos. The violence is pretty nonstop, and the explosions are very realistic. You get to see body parts raining down --" I trailed off, looking at Mike. He had sagged against the side of the van.

"It sounded alright to me," Big John said with a shrug.

I turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, and my wife appeared from out of the darkness.

"Why are all the vans parked here?" she asked. "Are you all taking a break from a busy evening?"

"Something like that," I said.

"That one has a flat tire," she said, pointing.

"Yep," I agreed, nodding. Mike and Big John remained silent.

"And there's a woman's voice in that one -- " she pointed to the Ann van " -- yelling something about filling hoppers and orders backing up and lost communication and other things I couldn't quite understand."

"Yep," I said again. Mike and Big John were still quiet.

She looked at Mike, saw the pizza box he was holding; then looked at Big John and the stack of boxes he was holding.

"Those can't be for us," she said. "We didn't order any pizzas." She looked at me. "Did we?"

I frowned and shook my head quickly. "Me? Nope. You know me ... I prefer Pizza Shack pizza." Mike and Big John stiffened simultaneously.

"Well, maybe you need to give Zippy's a try sometime soon," she said diplomatically. "But shouldn't you fix the tire and get back to helping them deliver pizzas?"

I shook my head again. "Not me. My van's down for the count. And not just the tire, there's -- uh -- stuff inside that's broken. Right, Mike?"

Mike sighed heavily. "Definitely. Thanks for your help, Rick. Big John and I will take it from here."

"Are you sure--?" she began.

"Oh, he's sure," I said, taking her by the elbow and leading her away. "We should get inside, the bugs are bad out here."

"Actually, they don't seem that bad," she said as we approached the front door. She pointed to the porch light. "See? They usually swarm around the light, but ---"

"Different kind of bugs -- hard to see." I opened the door and escorted her through. She managed to call a "good night!" to Mike and Big John before I closed it.

I spent the rest of the evening in the basement, sanding and re-sanding a section of the end table so many times that it became baby-bottom smooth.

My wife kept me apprised of the progress out on the driveway. From her reports, I surmised that Mike had disabled the AIs in the other two vans. A mobile repair service truck arrived, repaired the flat, and departed. A few minutes later, a Zippy's Pizza delivery car -- the kind driven by regular humans -- arrived and unloaded an uneasy-looking man who appeared to have just left a kitchen, as he was wearing a grease-stained apron. He received a quick two-on-one briefing from Uncle Mike and Big John, throughout which he nodded fearfully. The three then climbed into the vans -- the apron-clad fellow manning the the one I had driven -- and departed ... though she observed that the newcomer was apparently inexperienced with a vehicle the size of a van, as he nearly razed our mailbox while backing out of the driveway.

It was a week before I saw Mike again. I was back in the basement, staining the brother of the end-table that I had sanded the night of our adventures with the robotic vans. My wife had let him in the front door, and directed him down to the workroom.

He explained that it was indeed Dicky who had modified the vans. After Dicky had confessed, Big John had driven him to the airport and put him on a flight to somewhere far away.

"Big John's pretty much banished Dicky from the state. I'm not certain, but I think Big John convinced him to try crab fishing in Alaska. Big John can be pretty persuasive when he wants."

"So what about the vans?" I asked. "There was a lot of equipment in them; you can't just mothball them."

"Actually, it was Big John who came up with what to do. He's re-purposed them as mobile pizza kitchens for outdoor parties, ball games, family reunions -- those kinds of things."

I nodded. "I'm impressed. That's a good idea ... as long as you overlook the quality of the pizza that comes out."

"But --" Mike said, and at the sound of that word, I halted in mid brush-stroke. "I have not given up on my dream of revolutionizing the pizza delivery industry."

"Well, I hope you'll understand when I say that I have given up on your dream of revolutionizing the pizza delivery industry."

I returned to staining. For many moments, the only sound in the room was made by my paint-brush on wood. I looked up. Mike was grinning at me, his entire face shimmering with that familiar bright look of quivering expectation. I laid my brush across the top of the can of stain, and crossed my arms.

"Okay, go on ... what's your idea?"

"One word," he said.

"And that would be...?"

He leaned toward me, lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Drones!"

The closest tools that would serve as reasonable weapons were a ball-peen hammer and an awl. With one in each hand, I chased him upstairs and out the door.

(Author's note: The events in this story follow those described in "Constructor", which appeared in the March, 2014 edition of Aphelion. See here: Constructor)

Bio: Mr. Grehan is a software engineer at Dell/EqualLogic in Nashua, NH. He is also a contributing editor for InfoWorld Magazine. (You can find a bibliography of his InfoWorld work here: Infoworld articles by Rick Grehan.) He has written for computer magazines for many years, having started as a technical editor for BYTE Magazine back in the 80's.

E-mail: Rick Grehan

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