ROBOTS

Christmas was over, leaving behind millions of discarded bottles and tens of millions of hangovers. Before the residents of the Bridewell Valley and their guests had time to swallow their alka seltzas, the New Year's festivities were making fresh demands on them.

Farmer Jack, however, was in disgustingly good form. "Time to wassail again," he declared enthusiastically, waving around his pint of cider, drenching Lady Lillian of Laguna's new low-cut pink evening gown in the process. She scarcely noticed, however, being more occupied with the indignity she had just suffered at the hands of Irish Jack, who had developed a nasty habit when drunk of tossing peanuts into ladies' decolletage. He claimed that this was in the national interest, as it was providing him with practice for the precision bombing of Sadam Husein's nuclear reactors. Lady Betty of Northwood rebuked him for his loutish behaviour, at the same time sharply reminding him that he was far too old to be called up for military service.

'Christmas comes but once a year,' Farmer Jack went on mawkishly, But the great thing is that if you're clever, you can keep on celebrating New Years all the year round. There's the Tibetan New Year, The Hindu New year, the Jewish New Year, the Muslim New Year, Van Gogh's New Ear and the Chinese New Year. As it happens this is the Chinese Year of the Dog, so you'd better enjoy yourself, as I've given Billy, my setter spaniel, permission to bite you, if you fail to do your duty.'

His rambling discourse was interrupted by Long John Silva, who putting his finger to his lips, called: 'Hush a mo', what's that noise?'

Taking advantage of the silence that followed, Farmer Jack took another long swig from his pint of cider. Lady Lillian of Laguna took the opportunity to discretely remove an offending peanut from inside her bra. The rest of the company listened intently. After a while, Betty Northwood enquired in a whisper: "What are we supposed to be listening for?"

Long John Silver said: "There's an old saying in Dorset that it's good luck if you hear the cricket in the hearth on New Year's Eve. Well, I could swear I heard it just now.'

Everyone strained their ears intently. But instead of the distinctive chirping of a cricket all that could be heard was the booming voice of Geoff Bradman, who was telling Lady Pat that he had just sold a seventy-five litre, super-charged Lagonda with nineteen carburettors and fifteen head lamps to a member of the royal family.

'I can't hear a cricket,' Irish Jack complained.

Long John Silver said, with a mischievous grin. 'But you can hear Bradman, the famous cricket-er.'

'That will bring you even greater luck,' Bradman said, with a genial smile.

'Tell us more about this car you sold to royalty,' Lady Polly said.

'A 1925 Lagonda,' the Famous Cricketer replied dismissively. "But useless on the roads nowadays. It's got no robotics.'

'Robotics?' Lady Polly enquired.

"That's right. No electronic fuel injection, no cruise control, no automatic wipers, no anti-skid, no automatic gear box or power steering- none of the things we take for granted in a modern motor car. The day is rapidly approaching when you'll soon just get in the back of your new car, tell your robotic chauffeur the grid reference of your destination and he will drive you there.'

'Amazing!' Long John Silver said. 'But what happens to the robotic chauffeur when you arrive at your destination? Does he stay in the car while you are partying, or go off and have a pint in the local?'

The Famous Cricketer replied earnestly; 'He'll say: 'Do you want me to stay and guard the car, Master, or shall I perform other errands?''

Betty Northwood enquired: 'Will we be able to ask it to go shopping for an ounce of smoked salmon?'

'Of course!' replied the Famous Cricketer with a grin. "Why not. The more you work 'em the better value you get for money.'

Farmer Jack drank the rest of his cider. He sat in deep thought for a while and then exclaimed: "You be absolutely right, Famous Cricketer. It'll frighten my farm labourers to death when they hears that. I pays the buggers generous wages and they still complains come harvest time when I ask ''m to do a seventeen-hour day. I mean, when you come to think of it a healthy person only needs four hours sleep a night. So they can sleep four hours and have another three hours in which to laze around doin' nothing. I'm definitely goin' to get myself some of these 'ere automated robots."

Long John Silver reminded him: 'They have to be programmed.'

'What's that?'

'They have to have their memory bank filled with instructions for the duties they are to perform. They can't think for themselves."

"Nor can my farm labourers. One of them says 'Thank you" every time he goes through the automatic doors in the local supermarket.'

'Must have been very well brought up,' Lady Lillian remarked with a giggle.

'I'll grant him that. But I mean, it's daft to thank the door. It's only doing the job it's paid to do.'

He threw another log on the fire, causing a fierce eruption of red sparks to fly up the chimney.

Long John Silva remonstrated with Farmer Jack: 'You talk as if the automatic doors knows it has a duty to perform. A robot has no cognition- it's just a robot.'

"Ah, but my dang-fool labourers has no cognition, neither. So what's the difference?"

Irish Jack misquoted: 'Robots have eyes that hear not and ears that see not.'

When Lady Pat laughingly corrected him, Irish Jack declared, with a wave of his hand: 'All I meant to say is that robots are so dumb they don't know their mechanical elbows from their electronic arses.'

Anxious to soothe ruffled feelings, Lady Polly tactfully handed round a large box of Marks and Spencer's biscuits. The guests munched them thoughtfully. After Irish Jack's gaffe, they prudently decided not to display their own ignorance of technical matters.

'Nice day for the last day of the year,' Lady Pat said cheerfully, to break the silence.

Ignoring her, Farmer Jack said irritably. 'What I should like to know is the exact argument I should give the bank manager for replacing my farm labourers with a squad of these bloody robots. They cost a lot, but I'm told they're cheaper to run than the daft buggers I've got working for me. I 'ad to give each one of them a bottle of Albanian plonk this Christmas plus a bite-sized Mars bar. I wouldn't have to do that for robots. Robots don't eat or drink anything, so in the long run they can save a powerful lot of money. Mind you, you have to consider their interest.'

'They don't have interests,' Lady Pat interjected. 'They're not human.'

'Interest on capital is what I mean,' Farmer Jack replied. I'm well aware that they don't have hobbies like us humans. But, mind you, the dang things could still get up to mischief, if they took against you.'

'Robots don't have emotions,' Irish Jack commented.

'They suffer from bugs, don't they,' Farmer Jack replied slyly. 'And viruses, Robots get sick just like what we humans do.'

'Viruses in their software,' Irish Jack pointed out, are not the same as human viruses."

Ignoring him, Farmer Jack continued: 'And that's another thing. The dang critturs can now talk. So since there's no way of telling whether they have feelings or not, its best to give 'em the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps my daffy farm labourer be right when he says "Thank you" to them automatic doors. The things could give you a nasty crack when you weren't looking if they took against you. Best be on the safe side an' show proper respect.'

The Famous Cricketer exclaimed, in disbelief. 'Farmer Jack, you don't mean to say you intend to treat your robotic workers like human beings!'

"Certainly, Farmer Jack returned stolidly. 'An' I shall insist they go to church on Sunday.'

Long John Silver exclaimed scathingly 'Don't be daft. Robots don't have souls.'

'What's a soul? You show me a soul,' Farmer Jack said shrewdly, 'an' you can have this farm for a peppercorn rent.'

Long John Silver, aghast at Farmer Jack's ignorance relapsed into stupefied silence.

The New Year festivities went off with the usual display of high spirits. There was no dancing to Abba, that year, though. Farmer Jack said they sounded too much like Swedish robots.

The subject of robotics was forgotten during the succeeding celebrations. But, as Farmer Jack remarked during a lull in the dancing, the contentious issue was bound to come back some time.

Imagine the astonishment at the farm when Irish Jack arrived next year accompanied not only by his spouse, but also by what he described as his lap top. At first, nobody showed much interest in this piece of equipment, but he insisted on them going outside to see it.

It turned out to be larger than the miniature hand-held computer they had pictured in their minds. About five-feet five inches tall, she was fully articulate and ambulatory, had a shapely figure, long blond hair, a peach-like complexion, and a beguiling smile. Irish Jack explained that now he didn't need to tap letters into a keyboard anymore, because she recorded everything he said on her internal hard disk. The disk, he went on enthusiastically, was the only hard thing about her. She was otherwise soft and yielding and pliant – always sympathetic and eager to please. The reason she was called a laptop model was that she was always ready to sit on his lap. 'In fact,' he whispered, with a guilty glance towards Lady Betty, 'you could almost mistake her for a human being.'

After he had despatched her upstairs, Irish Jack whispered to Farmer Jack: 'She costs a lot less to run than a secretary and serves exactly the same function.'

Watching her swaying haunches as she retreated sexily towards the house, Farmer Jack mused: 'I need someone exactly like her to milk my cows.But,' he added mysteriously: 'has her'n got a soul?'

'I don't think so. Models with souls could cost a small fortune to run,' Irish Jack replied, nudging him in the ribs.

A private meeting was called that night by the ladies, from which the men were excluded. The following New Year, when celebrations began, the men folk were intrigued by the appearance of some six-feet two-inch parcels packed in festive wrappings. Each was addressed to one of the ladies with instructions: Not To Be opened Until New Year's Eve. Naturally, there was a great deal of speculation about the contents among their husbands. Farmer Jack opined that the parcels contained fencing posts. Long John Silver thought that they were snooker cues. The Famous Cricketer was sure they were luggage racks. Irish Jack thought they were fishing rods.

Imagine their astonishment when the ladies, amid a great deal of giggling, opened the parcels to reveal surprisingly life-like, extremely good-looking, male robots. As Lady Lillian remarked gleefully: "Coming from Harrods at least they've been programmed not to throw peanuts down a lady's cleavage. What's more, they dance beautifully to Abba and never, never, never get tired."