27. Ordinance Revision
The information center building resembled a tent shaped like an upside-down spinning top, adorned with striking ethnic patterns, as if hastily set up by Earth's nomads for a temporary camp.
The tent's fabric was made of high-grade carbon composite—tough yet supple, like refined graphene. It blended the smoothness of silk with the soft white of milk favored by nomads, exuding a sophisticated design that might make a human think, "That looks delicious."
The tent was spacious, roughly the size of ten houses sparsely arranged. A coin parking lot was located at the back, so we drove Zero Strike there to park.
The parking lot had a free charging system, and after giving Zero Strike a grateful kiss for carrying us this far, we let it rest.
Kana and I headed toward the information center.
Zero Strike wanted to come inside, but vehicles were prohibited from entering, so we had no choice but to leave it outside.
Stepping inside, the interior contrasted sharply with the ethnic exterior, evoking the late 20th-century's apocalyptic aesthetic, as if designed by a germaphobe architect. The minimalist decor, dominated by white, featured smooth, rounded designs with no sharp edges. It felt slightly clunky but had a unique charm that might be reappraised as retro chic in 30 years.
There weren't many humanoid robots visiting for information—far fewer than at the Scrap Nest tourist spot. Only three or four robots were around, which meant we reached the reception desk without waiting.
The humanoid robot at the desk, designed to look like a bored, late-20s office worker, had an expression deliberately crafted to convey monotony. She looked eerily human.
When we asked about the location of the starport where cargo ships operated, she casually handed us a map.
Kana, surprised, asked, "Wait, you're just giving it to us? Isn't that information…"
The receptionist, with a look that seemed to say, "What's with this guy?" replied, "That's why you came here, right?"
"Well, yeah, but… I thought the starport's location was off-limits to unsold humanoid robots."
"The ordinance changed yesterday," she said.
"Ordinance?" Kana echoed.
"Yes," the receptionist continued in a businesslike tone. "You know how the sales rate of the Moon's factory products has been dropping lately, right? Unsold humanoid robots are piling up as inventory."
"Really? I had no idea," Kana said.
If Kana didn't know, I certainly didn't either. So, Earth was experiencing a slump in humanoid robot sales. Not great news, I thought, rolling the idea around like it was someone else's problem.
"All three companies?" Kana asked.
The receptionist nodded, her eyes gradually taking on a cold, mechanical edge. She was likely unsold inventory herself. Though she'd found work here, she seemed to lack passion for it. I thought she might as well quit, but then she'd end up a recluse like me—a true piece of inventory. That wouldn't be pleasant. I felt a faint pang of empathy.
"Yes," she continued. "It's less about corporate issues and more that Earth is saturated with humanoid robots."
"Saturated…" I muttered, as if tasting something unpleasant.
She nodded again. "Earth's practically a planet of humanoid robots now. It might be better to stay here on the Moon, especially for introverted robots."
Her self-assuring tone stirred a trace of sympathy in me.
"Anyway," she went on mechanically, her gaze fixed toward Earth rather than at us. With her advanced model, she could likely see beyond visible light, probably staring at Earth even now. It felt less like longing and more like a mix of love and resentment.
"So, hope is gradually fading on the Moon—the hope of going to Earth. Especially in Nocturne Artemis, that sense of despair is spreading like a contagion. To counter it and restore some hope, the city decided to let humanoid robots freely see the cargo ships. They think it might revive hope and reduce error rates."
What a foolish decision, I thought but didn't say aloud. She seemed to feel the same, judging by her expression.
Kana, however, wasn't silent. "What's the point of that?" she said, shrugging. "Just looking at the cargo ships doesn't get us to Earth, right? What's the use?"
The receptionist paused for about 0.3 seconds, a thoughtful expression flickering, then replied, "It's about fostering the desire to 'want to ride that ship to Earth.'"
"So what? Wanting to go doesn't mean you can," Kana said, her tone slightly defiant.
The receptionist didn't seem offended; if anything, she appeared to enjoy the exchange. "That desire to 'want to go' leads to actually going. Humans got to the Moon and Mars that way—by building rockets and watching them launch over and over."
"I see," I chimed in. "First it becomes visible, then it becomes possible."
As I added that, a faint flush, like rust on iron, colored the receptionist's previously mechanical expression. For a nanometer-scale moment, it looked like she smiled.
"Exactly."
She handed us the map to the starport. As I took it, she said, "Safe travels."
Kana answered for us, "We'll be back."