Is That What People Do? (7 page)

Still, taken all together, I thought that the experiment had come off extremely well. I was pleased. My work and my courtship were both proceeding with high efficiency. I had achieved an ancient dream; I was a single ego served by two bodies. Who could ask for more?

What marvelous evenings we all had! My experiences were vicarious, of course, but genuinely moving all the same. I can still remember my first quarrel with Elaine, how beautiful and stubborn she was, and how deliciously we made up afterward.

That “making up” raised certain problems, as a matter of fact. I had programmed Charles II to proceed to a certain discreet point of physical intimacy and no further. But now I learned that one person cannot plan out every move of a courtship involving two autonomous beings, especially if one of those beings is a woman. For the sake of verisimilitude I had to permit the robot more intimacies than I had previously thought advisable.

After the first shock, I did not find this unpalatable. Quite the contrary—I might as well admit that I became deeply interested in the films of myself and Elaine. I suppose some stuffy psychiatrist would call this a case of voyeurism, or worse. But that would be to ignore the deeper philosophical implications. After all, what man has not dreamed of being able to view himself in action? It is a common fantasy to imagine one’s own hidden cameras recording one’s every move. Given the chance, who could resist the extraordinary privilege of being simultaneously actor and audience?

My dramas with Elaine developed in a direction that surprised me. A quality of desperation began to show itself, a love-madness of which I would never have believed myself capable. Our evenings became imbued with a quality of delicious sadness, a sense of imminent loss. Sometimes we didn’t speak at all, just held hands and looked at each other. And once Elaine wept for no discernible reason, and I stroked her hair, and she said to me, “What can we do?” and I looked at her and did not reply.

I am perfectly aware that these things happened to the robot, of course. But the robot was an aspect or attribute of
me
—my shadow, twin, double, animus, doppelganger. He was a projection of my personality into a particular situation; therefore whatever happened to him became my experience. Metaphysically there can be no doubt of this.

It was all very interesting. But at last I had to bring the courtship to an end. It was time for Elaine and me to plan our marriage and to coordinate our schedules. Accordingly, exactly two months after its inception, I told the robot to propose a wedding date and to terminate the courtship as of that night.

“You have done extremely well,” I told him. “When this is over, you will receive a new personality, plastic surgery and a respected place in my organization.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said. His face was unreadable, as is my own. I heard no hint of anything in his voice except perfect obedience. He left carrying my latest gift to Elaine.

Midnight came and Charles II didn’t return. An hour later I felt disturbed. By three a.m. I was in a state of agitation, experiencing erotic and masochistic fantasies, seeing him with her in every conceivable combination of mechano-physical lewdness. The minutes dragged by, Charles II still did not return, and my fantasies became sadistic. I imagined the slow and terrible ways in which I would take my revenge on both of them, the robot for his presumption and Elaine for her stupidity in being deceived by a mechanical substitute for a real man.

The long night crept slowly by. At last I fell into a fitful sleep.

I awoke early. Charles II still had not returned. I canceled my appointments for the entire morning and rushed over to Elaine’s apartment.

“Charles!” she said. “What an unexpected pleasure!”

I entered her apartment with an air of nonchalance. I was determined to remain calm until I had learned exactly what had happened last night. Beyond that, I didn’t know what I might do.

“Unexpected?” I said. “Didn’t I mention last night that I might come by for breakfast?”

“You may have,” Elaine said. “To tell the truth, I was much too emotional to remember everything you said.”

“But you do remember what happened?”

She blushed prettily. “Of course, Charles. I still have marks on my arm.”

“Do you, indeed!”

“And my mouth is bruised. Why do you grind your teeth that way?”

“I haven’t had my coffee yet,” I told her.

She led me into the breakfast nook and poured coffee. I drained mine in two gulps and asked, “Do I really seem to you like the man I was last night?”

“Of course,” she said. “I’ve come to know your moods. Charles, what’s wrong? Did something upset you last night?”

“Yes!” I cried wildly. “I was just remembering how you danced naked on the terrace.” I stared at her, waiting for her to deny it.

“It was only for a moment,” Elaine said. “And I wasn’t really naked, you know, I had on my body stocking. Anyhow, you asked me to do it.”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, yes.” I was confused. I decided to continue probing. “But then when you drank champagne from my desert boot—”

“I only took a sip,” she said. “Was I too daring?”

“You were splendid,” I said, feeling chilled all over. “I suppose it’s unfair of me to remind you of these things now...”

“Nonsense, I like to talk about it.”

“What about that absurd moment when we exchanged clothing?”

“That
was
wicked of us,” she said, laughing.

I stood up. “Elaine,” I said, “just exactly what in hell were you doing last night?”

“What a question,” she said. “I was with you.”

“No, Elaine.”

“But Charles—those things you just spoke about—”

“I made them up.”

“Then who were
you
with last night’”

“I was home, alone.”

Elaine thought about that for a few moments. Then she said, “I’m afraid I have a confession to make.”

I folded my arms and waited.

“I too was home alone last night.”

I raised one eyebrow. “And the other nights?”

She took a deep breath. “Charles, I can no longer deceive you. I really had wanted an old-fashioned courtship. But when the time came, I couldn’t seem to fit it into my schedule. You see, it was finals time in my Aztec pottery class, and I had just been elected chairwoman of the Aleutian Assistance League, and my new boutique needed special attention—”

“So what did you do?”

“Well—I simply couldn’t say to you, ‘Look, let’s drop the courtship and just get married.’ After all, I hardly knew you.”

“What did you do?”

She sighed. “I knew several girls who had gotten themselves into this kind of a spot. They went to this really clever robot-maker named Snaithe...Why are you laughing?”

I said, “I too have a confession to make. I have used Mr. Snaithe, too.”

“Charles! You actually sent a
robot
here to court me? How could you! Suppose I had really been me?”

“I don’t think either of us is in a position to express much indignation. Did your robot come home last night?”

“No. I thought that Elaine II and you—”

I shook my head. “I have never met Elaine II, and you have never met Charles II. What happened, apparently, is that our robots met, courted and now have run away together.”

“But robots can’t do that!”

“Ours did. I suppose they managed to reprogram each other.”

“Or maybe they just fell in love,” Elaine said wistfully.

I said, “I will find out what happened. But now, Elaine, let us think of ourselves. I propose that at our earliest possible convenience we get married.”

“Yes, Charles,” she murmured. We kissed. And then, gently, lovingly, we began to coordinate our schedules.

I was able to trace the runaway robots to Kennedy Spaceport. They had taken the shuttle to Space Platform 5, and changed there for the Centauri Express. I didn’t bother trying to investigate any further. They could be on any one of a dozen worlds.

Elaine and I were deeply affected by the experience. We realized that we had become overspecialized, too intent upon productivity, too neglectful of the simple, ancient pleasures. We acted upon this insight, taking an additional hour out of every day—seven hours a week—in which simply to be with each other. Our friends consider us romantic fools, but we don’t care. We know that Charles II and Elaine II, our alter egos, would approve.

There is only this to add. One night Elaine woke up in a state of hysteria. She had had a nightmare. In it she had become aware that Charles II and Elaine II were the real people who had escaped the inhumanity of Earth to some simpler and more rewarding world. And we were the robots they had left in their places, programmed to believe that we were human.

I told Elaine how ridiculous that was. It took me a long time to convince her, but at last I did. We are happy now and we lead good, productive, loving lives. Now I must stop writing this and get back to work.

THE MNEMONE

It was a great day for our village when the Mnemone arrived. But we did not know him at first, because he concealed his identity from us. He said that his name was Edgar Smith, and that he was a repairer of furniture. We accepted both statements at face value, as we receive all statements. Until then, we had never known anyone who had anything to conceal.

He came into our village on foot, carrying a knapsack and a battered suitcase. He looked at our stores and houses. He walked up to me and asked, “Where is the police station?”

“We have none,” I told him.

“Indeed? Then where is the local constable or sheriff?”

“Luke Johnson was constable here for nineteen years,” I told him. “But Luke died two years ago. We reported this to the county seat as the law requires. But no one has been sent yet to take his place.”

“So you police yourselves?”

“We live quietly,” I said. “There’s no crime in this village. Why do you ask?”

“Because I wanted to know,” Smith said, not very helpfully. “A little knowledge is not as dangerous as a lot of ignorance, eh? Never mind, my blank-faced young friend. I like the look of your village. I like the wooden frame buildings and the stately elms. I like—”

“The stately what?” I asked him.

“Elms,” he said, gesturing at the tall trees that lined Main Street. “Didn’t you know their name?”

“It was forgotten,” I said, embarrassed.

“No matter. Many things have been lost, and some have been hidden. Still, there’s no harm in the name of a tree. Or is there?”

“No harm at all,” I said. “Elm trees.”

“Keep that to yourself,” he said, winking. “It’s only a morsel, but there’s no telling when it might prove useful. I shall stay for a time in this village.”

“You are most welcome,” I said. “Especially now, at harvest-time.”

Smith looked at me sharply. “I have nothing to do with that. Did you take me for an itinerant apple-picker?”

“I didn’t think about it one way or another. What will you do here?”

“I repair furniture,” Smith said.

“Not much call for that in a village this size,” I told him.

“Then maybe I’ll find something else to turn my hand to.” He grinned at me suddenly. “For the moment, however, I require lodgings.”

I took him to the Widow Marsini’s house, and there he rented her large back bedroom with porch and separate entrance. He arranged to take all of his meals there, too.

His arrival let loose a flood of gossip and speculation. Mrs. Marsini felt that Smith’s questions about the police went to show that he himself was a policeman. “They work like that,” she said. “Or they used to. Back fifty years ago, every third person you met was some kind of a policeman. Sometimes even your own children were policemen, and they’d be as quick to arrest you as they would a stranger. Quicker!”

But others pointed out that all of that had happened long ago, that life was quiet now, that policemen were rarely seen, even though they were still believed to exist.

But why had Smith come? Some felt that he was here to take something from us. “What other reason is there for a stranger to come to a village like this?” And others felt that he had come to give us something, citing the same argument.

But we didn’t know. We simply had to wait until Smith chose to reveal himself.

He moved among us as other men do. He had knowledge of the outside world; he seemed to us a far-traveling man. And slowly, he began to give us clues as to his identity.

One day I took him to a rise which looks out over our valley. This was at midautumn, a pretty time. Smith looked out and declared it a fine sight. “It puts me in mind of that famous tag from William James,” he said. “How does it go? ‘Scenery seems to wear in one’s consciousness better than any other element in life.’ Eh? Apt, don’t you think?”

“Who is or was this William James?” I asked.

Smith winked at me. “Did I mention that name? Slip of the tongue, my lad.”

But that was not the last “slip of the tongue.” A few days later I pointed out an ugly hillside covered with second-growth pine, low coarse shrubbery, and weeds. “This burned five years ago,” I told him. “Now it serves no purpose at all.”

“Yes, I see,” Smith said. “And yet—as Montaigne tells us—there is nothing useless in nature, not even uselessness itself.”

And still later, walking through the village, he paused to admire Mrs. Vogel’s late-blooming peonies. He said, “Flowers do indeed have the glances of children and the mouths of old men...Just as Chazal pointed out.”

Toward the end of the week, a few of us got together in the back of Edmonds’s store and began to discuss Mr. Edgar Smith. I mentioned the things he had said to me. Bill Edmonds remembered that Smith had cited a man named Emerson, to the effect that solitude was impractical, and society fatal. Billy Foreclough told us that Smith had quoted Ion of Chios to him: that Luck differs greatly from Art, yet creates many things that are like it. And Mrs. Gordon suddenly came up with the best of the lot; a statement Smith told her was made by the great Leonardo da Vinci: vows begin when hope dies.

We looked at each other and were silent. It was evident to everyone that Mr. Edgar Smith—or whatever his real name might be—was no simple repairer of furniture.