Once again the luminous glow of Edenger’s nightlife gives way to the radiant rays of another day. Flotation pods, hover crafts, sky-rails, and various other modes of transportation appear to instantly triple in number among the highways and skyways to insure on-time arrival of the populace.
Many miles from the opulence of the palace the Administrative Staff Billets is located. A picturesque complex that could easily be mistaken for a resort: stables, tennis courts, swimming pools, and various other recreational distractions, allowing the hardworking inhabitants to experience the benefits of their continuous servitude to the High Order.
A funny, somewhat childlike robot, named Squeaker, opens the curtains on the balcony doors of a fifth floor apartment on the west wing.
“Cazzi Roo. Cazzi Roo. Wakey. Wakey.” Squeaker began in his comically distinctive voice. “It’s much, much past time for you. Time for buns outta’ bed, and buns on the run. Fun! Fun! Fun!”
On the opposite side of the rest chamber is the target of the unusual wake-up announcement. Cazzi Roo; nineteen, a pixie-like young lady with sparkling eyes; yet presently looking about as disheveled as she can lying in her rumpled bed. She obviously does not want to get up.
“Box it, Squeak!” she commands. “Or I’ll have ‘P’ chips for breakfast.”
“A futile threat indeed, indeed from one who has already missed A.M. feedbag, Cazzi-cakes,” the robot responds in its sibling-like banter. “So shake it, shake it, or your superior break it. And no more snazzy Cazzi for with Squeak to speak.”
“Yeah, yeah, you already ruined my dream anyway,” Cazzi replies yawning, while reluctantly beginning to rise. “So what’s on the agenda?”
In perfect unison, befitting their years together, Squeaker gets everything ready for Cazzi at the precise moment she reaches for it, while simultaneously giving her the rundown of the day’s activities.
“Fem-defense, but too late, too late,” Squeaker began. “Pod-Q training. Oops! Could’ve hovered, but it’s over. One case, two case, debate, debate. But still too late to make the date.”
And as usual Cazzi gets impatient: “Okay! What haven’t I missed?”
Squeaker shows his normal, though minute, disapproval of his ‘ladyship’s’ rude habit of never letting him finish any lengthy accounting of things she, herself asked for.
“Presently,” he begins in a huff, “though missed times nine, Joket Alon sends on-line. On-line ten he sends again.”
“Then can it, and cue him up,” she insists.
Squeaker’s monitor pops on, and the face of Joket Alon appears. He is young, handsome, especially in his Ad-Spec (Administrative Specialist) uniform, but gives off a slight air of insecurity.
“I’m awestruck!” Joket exclaims. “Only a mere ten sends today.”
“Don’t wad my knickies,” Cazzi replies. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Then you’d better get a rapid mood job,” announced Joket in a serious tone, “because the 1st Consul sent an ‘Immed’ for you fifty minutes ago.”
“Shatbat!” claimed Cazzi, quickly stepping up activities. “Why wasn’t a P.S. dispatched?”
“I tried three priority sends,” countered Joket, “and they were terminated.”
“Squeaker!” yelled Cazzi, visibly agitated. And the droid gave her his full, though unconcerned attention. “You terminated three priority sends?”
“Your zero-three amending,” began Squeaker, as if reminding a child, “specified no sending. Not any kind, under any condition. ‘No way’, you say, or Squeaker pay.”
“Not too brainy for someone on-call for the week,” claimed Joket over the monitor.
“I might have been under the influence of whisbon at the time,” Cazzi replied in her defense, as if some clouded recollection was occurring.
“If Cazzi need to clarify,” interrupts Squeaker, “I can surely verify. For sure, for sure, a lot of whisbon was in her.” Which send the sibling-like banter and gestures into over-drive.
“Gag it, sensor-dick!” Cazzi commands.
“With dyna-lube, flesh and blood itchy bitchy,” counters Squeaker.
“Electric-stroker,” Cazzi verbally parries.
“You never complained before,” Squeaker jabs back, “even when it made you sore.”
“Squeaker!” screams Cazzi, embarrassed, remembering Joket is still on the monitor.
“I hate to break up your pillow-talk,” Joket interjects, “but aren’t you forgetting the 1st Consul?”
She had forgot.
“Oh yeah, right,” Cazzi sheepishly remarks. “It’ll take half a shake.”
“Just get it in gear and get it here,” insists Joket. “I’ll blame it on com-probs (communication problems).”
Squeaker’s monitor shuts off, and Cazzi glares at her metal companion while on her way to the hygienic chamber.
“Com-probs,” Cazzi remarks, “there seems to be a lot of that going around.”
Squeaker ignores her, locates the frequency to his favorite music station, cranks it, and continues on with his morning routine while be-bopping to the tunes.