>You shoulder the door behind you as you slip off your gloves and kick off your rubber boots, tossing them into the pile of work gear in the corner of your mudroom.
>Unclasping your hardhat, you toss it on the counter, running your fingers through your damp hair before opening the next door and stepping into your living room.
>You've survived another day at work, and can't wait to take a shower then zone out to some TV.
>The signing bonus of your job bought that tube brand new when you were just starting out on your own, and while its getting long in the tooth and fuzzy by today's standards it still plays ball games like the day you bought it.
>You could buy yourself a fancy new color tube easily with what you've saved, but why?
>If you bought the newest thing every time you saw it you'd still be couch surfing with highschool friends, not in your own place like you have now.
>But no amount of money ever made up for the fact that you never got a second to actually do anything but watch.
>Your one week off ended two weeks ago, and your folks had used it as an opportunity to try and set you up on a date with a girl you knew back in highschool.
>You would've been elated to go out with her before you started as a battery technician for RCA.
>The job pays very well, affording you a sizeable house in a fairly upscale part of town.
>But as with any job, it comes with drawbacks.
>Twelve hour shifts and one day off a week doesn't give you time to properly clean this big house, let alone to make a lasting connection with a woman.
>You declined the date, and got your house in order for once, as well as putting some time into your many projects for the first time since your last vacation.
>Not that it made much of a difference after another two weeks of work.
>It's a lonely life, but its your just desserts for not getting married right out of highschool like everyone else did.
>Rooting around in your fridge rewards you with a sandwich that you can't remember the age of, but it smells OK enough.
>You hope.
>Scarfing it down on your way past the kitchen, you throw its wrapper at the bin. When it falls out, you pick it back up and shove it down, just barely making enough room to hold the ball of tin.
>You'll have time on your day off to take it out.
>You strip off the rest of your clothes as you amble through the hallway, chucking them into the pile in your laundry room; never to be seen again.
>Or at least until the weekend, when you use your day off to do anything but enjoy yourself.
>Sighing, you twist open the squeaky bathroom door knob, and prepare yourself for yet another shower that will never be hot enough to clear the braising stench of acid fumes from your body.
+------------+
>Your trusty TV set has been the only thing between you and insanity for a couple years now.
>You would do something constructive, if the constant nagging in your back and knees would let you.
>The two hours you get between sleeping and working isn't enough to get much of anything done anyway.
>After you'd gotten dry and thrown your towel into the laundry room, you habitually walked up the set and ran your fingers across the top.
>Rubbing them together pierces your senses with an awful grainyness.
>You'll dust this Sunday, too.
>Flipping on the TV, you dial for ABC.
>More about the war. Not interested.
>Then NBC.
>Braves v Phillies. Big whoop.
>Last try for the good channels.
>CBS is doing a special on technology.
>Sure, why not.
>A lanky man in a fancy suit stands on a podium with three spotlights aiming at three different showcases on the stage. One marked “Military", another marked “The Space Race" and another marked “The Home Front"
>The presenter gestures to his two sharply dressed assistants to pull the tarp off the military display.
>Two older model military robots stood motionless and disarmed on the stage, their bulky and cubic designs telling of their age. They were probably older than you were.
>As the presenter quickly talks through their specifications, half inch frontal armor, fifty caliber machine guns, all the things that make generals hot under the collar.
>The screen regularly cuts to short video clips of them firing in the jungle. You guessed they were clips from Korea, Since these antiques were almost all scrapped or museum pieces by now.
>"And, having seen what our nation could present proudly against our enemies in the past, we now look forward into our present and future." He said, with transatlantic flair.
>The 'present and future' was mostly footage of the new 'Prancer' and 'Duster' Military robots in the field.
>They were recent developments that nobody had heard of until we'd gotten more involved with Vietnam.
>You didn't really care for military robots, you'd been trying to ignore war as much as you could recently.
>You took a quick break to wash some dishes while you waited for them to stop talking about the ammo capacity on the new Prancer death machine, brought to you by the RCA battery division.
>You managed to only feel a little bit sick when it was over.
>But you'd gotten a rare head start on the cleaning duties for your trouble.
>At least there were some interesting developments outside of the military sector.
>A NASA engineer had joined the presenter for a special feature, with the space race display now being uncovered.
>They were going to send a lightened and power reduced version of a nursing bot to the moon with the Apollo 11 crew.
>Apparently there was something special about the bot beyond all the expensive gyroscopic and diagnostic technology they had miniaturized to squeeze it into an apollo mission capsule, but the presenter said that he 'wouldn't want to spoil the surprise'
>The only thing 'surprising' to you about that particular machine was how human it looked. If the goal was to send eye candy up to the moon with those boys then they passed with flying colors.
>It was a thin, almost spindly thing, with a synthetic pale skin and wavy black hair. It looked exactly like what you would picture in your head if someone said 'flapper girl.'
>Of course, if that flapper was clad in a bright, rolled up NASA uniform.
>You could've mistaken it for an actual person on your fuzzy black-and-white tube, if not for the oddly thin neck, and obvious hinges at the elbows.
>And the pair of empty black ovals serving as eyes.
>You didn't really like that particular design choice.
>But, everything else you could get behind.
>Walking on the moon with a robot, what a world we live in.
>The newest advancements in home and garden were interesting as well.
>Some bots that could vacuum, a few that could dust and mop, and even one that could do dishes.
>That'd be nice.
>Your eyes started to droop as the grandiose segments started to give way to the short footnotes that were probably lifted straight from whatever technology magazine they were listed in.
>You had just about drifted into the black before the droning advertising suddenly cut back to the stage.
>The now slightly glistening presenter collected himself and announced a special segment.
>The CEO and Chief Engineer of Greenwood-Standard would be on to inform the public of their newest project, along with a “special guest."
>Sounded interesting enough to just barely rouse you from the cusp of sleep.
>The show faded to black, as a completely new camera looked up at the branches of a tree.
>A young man ran across the screen, holding a kite string behind him and laughing.
>A new, more subdued narrator spoke.
>"When you were 9 years old, your time was your own."
>"And then, you grew up." The presenter said, as the commercial cut to a man laboring over office work.
>"Now, there's never enough time."
>"You've got to make the most of the time you have."
>The commercial cut back to the stage, the presenter now flanked by an equally lanky man, but the newcomer was better dressed for a workshop than the stage. His clothes were clean, but clearly meant for a thinking mans job.
>An older, jolly looking man stood ahead of them, straightening his tastefully oversized jacket and tapping the mic before speaking.
>"And you can! With a new Electroluxe home companion!"
>"Hello, my name is Paul Greenwood, CEO and Co-Founder of Greenwood-Standard technologies group."
>He gestured to the geeky looking man next to the presenter, clearly uncomfortable on camera, but excited to show off whatever invention he was on to present.
>"And this young up-and-comer is Conor Driscoll, the head engineer behind the best of our products since 1964! Why don't you say hello to the fine folks at home Conor?"
>"Ah, hello America." The engineer nervously chuckled, before gesturing lightly at his boss to take the mic back and continue.
>He got back to his part while barely missing a beat.
>"Now, you may recall that we were having a special guest on tonight. But you've already seen her."
>What?
>"Why not meet her, too? Conor, would you please do the honors?"
>"Right away sir." He said, before turning his back to the camera and calmly speaking;
>"Emily, wake up."
>You were a little confused, as it seemed nothing was happening, until you looked at the 'space race' display again.
>The nursing robot on the display was… Wait, it did have eyes!
>You just couldn't see them until they started glowing.
>It shifted its head to look at the engineer, before a dainty voice spoke;
>"Conor! It is so nice to see you again! And Mr. Greenwood! Gosh, I almost feel famous."
>"And you as well, Emily! Perhaps after today you will be famous. Why don't you join us and introduce yourself to the fine folks at home?"
>"Yes Mr. Greenwood." She replied cheerily, gracefully striding to stand between the two men she knew.
>Closer up you could even see that her 'eyes' actually appeared to be two set of scanlines, with the parts that weren't lit up serving as her pupils.
>Even looked like her eyelids and pupils were just areas where the lines turned off.
>A softer man would've called it cute.
>Probably.
>The presenter seemed almost as flabbergasted as you were, even with the likely forewarning he was given. You didn't think anything could prepare someone for something like this.
>The happy man gave the robot the microphone, looking over as the engineer whispered into her synthetic ear.
>She nodded and introduced herself;
>"Hello fine people of America, my name is Emily! I am a Model PS-68b Electroluxe home companion." She said almost confidently, but you could detect a hint of shyness on that stylized face.
>Amazing.
>"Me and my siblings are all equipped and ready to handle any of life's banal tasks, be it cooking, cleaning, laundry, childcare, and even your taxes!" She listed, bobbing her pin-curled blond hair.
>"Don't forget space travel." Said the engineer.
>"Oh, well that's just me." She replied, looking up at the engineer quizzically.
>"Well who knows," The older man began “Space travel is the travel of the future, after all."
>"But let's get back on topic, starting with specifications. Driscoll, this is way over my head, how about you explain?"
>You tuned out most of the rest of the ad, mostly just the older man prodding the engineer to brag about how they'd shrunk electronic minds like hers from the size of a bus into the football-sized core seen today.
>It was definitely weird when the engineer suddenly reached to unzip the back of her jumpsuit and shoved it halfway down her body.
>There wasn't much under there but clean white plastic, with two suspicious reflections that could've been modeled breasts, but they wouldn't show that on TV.
>He reached under the gap where her chestpiece met her abdomen, and pulled.
>Yep, that solid metal chunk thing definitely looked to be about football sized.
>She just stood there while the engineer brought the cameraman closer to poke around.
>You thought the little machine might've been blushing when the cameraman popped up to let Emily answer a question about herself, but that was probably just a reflection, too.
>It wrapped up rather fast, with the Engineer pressing her chest panel shut, and leading the 'astrobot' back to her spot on the stage.
>You shut off the TV when the old man started talking prices.
>You did catch the company's phone number, of course.
>For once, maybe it was worth buying the newest thing.
>You weren't really considering this, were you?
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