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cognition software fell apart when it came to accented, slurred, and idiomatic speech.
"You have holdings in two salt mines," said the woman. "But they're both loser investments. You need to get rid of them."
This irritated Andrew. "I didn't assign you any files to read," he said. "I didn't even buy this software yet. I don't want you reading my files. How do I shut you down?"
"But if you liquidate the salt mines, you can use the proceeds to pay your taxes. It almost exactly covers the year's fee."
"You're telling me you already figured out my taxes?"
"You just landed on the planet Sorelledolce, where the tax rates are unconscionably high. But using every exemption left to you, including veterans' benefit laws that apply to only a handful of living participants in the War of Xenocide, I was able to keep the total fee under five million."
Andrew laughed. "Oh, brilliant, even my most pessimistic figure didn't go over a million five."
It was the woman's turn to laugh. "Your figure was a million and a half starcounts. My figure was under five million firenzette."
Andrew calculated the difference in local currency and his smile faded. "That's seven thousand starcounts."
"Seven thousand four hundred and ten," said the woman. "Am I hired?"
"There is no legal way you can get me out of paying that much of my taxes."
"On the contrary, Mr. Wiggin. The tax laws are designed to trick people into paying more than they have to. That way the rich who are in the know get to take advantage of drastic tax breaks, while those who don't have such good connections and haven't yet found an accountant who does are tricked into paying ludicrously higher amounts. I, however, know all the tricks."
"A great come-on," said Andrew. "Very convincing. Except the part where the police come and arrest me."
"You think so, Mr. Wiggin?"
"If you're going to force me to use a verbal interface," said Andrew, "at least call me something other than Mister."
"How about Andrew?" she said.
"Fine."
"And you must call me Jane."
"Must I?"
"Or I could call you Ender," she said.
Andrew froze. There was nothing in his files to indicate that childhood nickname.
"Terminate this program and get off my computer at once," he said.
"As you wish," she answered.
Her head disappeared from the screen.
Good riddance, thought Andrew. If he gave a tax form showing that low an amount to Benedetto, there wasn't a chance he could avoid a full audit, and from the way Andrew sized up the tax man, Benedetto would come away with a large part of Andrew's estate for himself. Not that Andrew minded a little enterprise in a man, but he had a feeling Benedetto didn't know when to say when. No need to wave a red flag in front of his face.
But as he worked on, he began to wish he hadn't been so hasty. This Jane software might have pulled the name "Ender" out of its database as a nickname for Andrew. Though it was odd that she should try that name before more obvious choices like "Drew" or "Andy," it was paranoid of him to imagine that a piece of software that got emailed into his computer--no doubt a trial-size version of a much larger program--could have known so quickly that he really was the Andrew Wiggin. It just said and did what it was programmed to say and do. Maybe choosing the least-likely nickname was a strategy to get the potential customer to give the correct nickname, which would mean tacit approval to use it--another step closer to the decision to buy.
And what if that low, low tax figure was accurate? Or what if he could force it to come up with a more reasonable figure? If the software was competently written, it might be just the financial adviser and investment counselor he needed. Certainly it had found the two salt mines quickly enough, triggered by a figure of speech from his childhood on Earth. And their sale value, when he went ahead and liquidated them, was exactly what she had predicted.
What it had predicted. That human-looking face in the display certainly was a good ploy, to personalize the software and get him to start thinking of it as a person. You could junk a piece of software, but it would be rude to send a person away.
Well, it hadn't worked on him. He did send it away. And would do it again, if he felt the need to. But right now, with only two weeks left before the tax deadline, he thought it might be worth putting up with the annoyance of an intrusive virtual woman. Maybe he could reconfigure the software to communicate with him in text only, as he preferred.
He went to his email and called up the ad. This time, though, all that appeared was the standard message: "File no longer available."
