with its cable-less sixty-inch TV screen. I estimated the diagonal distance from the clubhouse roof to the corner of the rooftop where we now stood. Six hundred, seven hundred meters at most. Perfect.
Cassie’s eyes tracked to where I was looking. “Why did you really want to come up here?”
“To get some fresh air,” I said. “Let’s go. Blake leaves promptly at five, which, for him, usually means four thirty, or even four.”
I held the fire door open for her, and we started down.
“What sports do you like to watch?” I asked.
• • •
Blake had PETMAN on the steel-mesh treadmill when we entered the robotics lab. The humanoid robot was walking fast, arms swinging a little spastically. Blake stood nearby, holding an iPad like a clipboard.
“Blake, Cassie,” I said. “Cassie, Blake.”
I let them finish introducing themselves to each other while I checked out the robot. Today Blake had a pair of Nike running shoes on its feet, but it was otherwise unclothed. Even the contoured fiberglass body panels had been detached from its legs, torso, and upper arms. The bare steel struts of the robot’s endoskeleton and the exposed hydraulic actuators of its joints gleamed under the lab lights. Loops of quarter-inch metal flex tubing coiled loosely around the endoskeleton, carrying hydraulic lines and control cables.
Sometimes, PETMAN wore a desert-patterned combat uniform and tan boots, as it had for Friday’s demo. In clothes, it could appear eerily human. Then the only signs that gave it away were its tubular steel forearms, which ended in blunt, rounded friction pads instead of hands, and its undersized, disturbing substitute for a head.
Where a human’s neck would be, a three-inch red plastic dome protruded from PETMAN’s collar: a small warning light that rotated like a police flasher, splashing red light across the wall behind the treadmill, and across Blake’s face, once every second.
“It walks just like a real person,” Cassie said.
I thought she was being a little kind. PETMAN did move like an aggressive human, with its chest forward and elbows wide, striding the treadmill like a gunfighter. But at a fast walk, its motions were already a little jerky. At higher speeds, I knew, the robot wobbled like a lurching drunk, although it never quite lost its balance.
“Watch this,” Blake said, tapping his iPad.
The robot slowed its pace and came to a stop, the steel-mesh treadmill also sliding to a stop beneath its feet. The featureless, microcephalic head continued to flash red at us. PETMAN raised his arms and stepped wide, touching the rounded nubs at the ends of its wrists together above its head. Then it brought its arms down and feet together again, in a calisthenic movement like a slow-motion jumping jack. The robot repeated this several times, conveying a sense of great strength held in check. The powerful hydraulic actuators made its frame jerk and shudder with every motion.
“It has Alzheimer’s,” I said.
“I could increase his frictional damping,” Blake said, “but that would slow him down.”
Even though I knew it was stupid, watching PETMAN move always made me uncomfortable. The gunfighter posture and the forward cant of that smooth, blank nub of a head projected a brute threat whose silent inexorability made it all the more menacing.
“Robosoldier,” Cassie said. “Scary. What’s his intended mission?”
PETMAN squatted, and swiveled at the waist, those steel-tube forearms sweeping the air around him like a man batting away a pack of angry dogs. It went to one knee.
“Load carrier,” Blake said. “A thirteen-person infantry squad lugs almost a thousand pounds of supplies, ammunition, and water—nearly a hundred pounds per soldier. Offloading that weight to autonomous logistics support lets them focus on their primary mission.”
“PETMAN’s a pack mule,” I said.
The robot was on both knees now. It leaned forward to touch the blunt friction-pads at the ends
Cassie’s eyes tracked to where I was looking. “Why did you really want to come up here?”
“To get some fresh air,” I said. “Let’s go. Blake leaves promptly at five, which, for him, usually means four thirty, or even four.”
I held the fire door open for her, and we started down.
“What sports do you like to watch?” I asked.
• • •
Blake had PETMAN on the steel-mesh treadmill when we entered the robotics lab. The humanoid robot was walking fast, arms swinging a little spastically. Blake stood nearby, holding an iPad like a clipboard.
“Blake, Cassie,” I said. “Cassie, Blake.”
I let them finish introducing themselves to each other while I checked out the robot. Today Blake had a pair of Nike running shoes on its feet, but it was otherwise unclothed. Even the contoured fiberglass body panels had been detached from its legs, torso, and upper arms. The bare steel struts of the robot’s endoskeleton and the exposed hydraulic actuators of its joints gleamed under the lab lights. Loops of quarter-inch metal flex tubing coiled loosely around the endoskeleton, carrying hydraulic lines and control cables.
Sometimes, PETMAN wore a desert-patterned combat uniform and tan boots, as it had for Friday’s demo. In clothes, it could appear eerily human. Then the only signs that gave it away were its tubular steel forearms, which ended in blunt, rounded friction pads instead of hands, and its undersized, disturbing substitute for a head.
Where a human’s neck would be, a three-inch red plastic dome protruded from PETMAN’s collar: a small warning light that rotated like a police flasher, splashing red light across the wall behind the treadmill, and across Blake’s face, once every second.
“It walks just like a real person,” Cassie said.
I thought she was being a little kind. PETMAN did move like an aggressive human, with its chest forward and elbows wide, striding the treadmill like a gunfighter. But at a fast walk, its motions were already a little jerky. At higher speeds, I knew, the robot wobbled like a lurching drunk, although it never quite lost its balance.
“Watch this,” Blake said, tapping his iPad.
The robot slowed its pace and came to a stop, the steel-mesh treadmill also sliding to a stop beneath its feet. The featureless, microcephalic head continued to flash red at us. PETMAN raised his arms and stepped wide, touching the rounded nubs at the ends of its wrists together above its head. Then it brought its arms down and feet together again, in a calisthenic movement like a slow-motion jumping jack. The robot repeated this several times, conveying a sense of great strength held in check. The powerful hydraulic actuators made its frame jerk and shudder with every motion.
“It has Alzheimer’s,” I said.
“I could increase his frictional damping,” Blake said, “but that would slow him down.”
Even though I knew it was stupid, watching PETMAN move always made me uncomfortable. The gunfighter posture and the forward cant of that smooth, blank nub of a head projected a brute threat whose silent inexorability made it all the more menacing.
“Robosoldier,” Cassie said. “Scary. What’s his intended mission?”
PETMAN squatted, and swiveled at the waist, those steel-tube forearms sweeping the air around him like a man batting away a pack of angry dogs. It went to one knee.
“Load carrier,” Blake said. “A thirteen-person infantry squad lugs almost a thousand pounds of supplies, ammunition, and water—nearly a hundred pounds per soldier. Offloading that weight to autonomous logistics support lets them focus on their primary mission.”
“PETMAN’s a pack mule,” I said.
The robot was on both knees now. It leaned forward to touch the blunt friction-pads at the ends
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