Fear—apprehend; have uneasy anticipation—
What had she to fear?
The silence became unbearable—she wished that he would talk.
“There is so much that we could do together, Jeanne,” he said instantly. “So much to explore and share—an infinity of learning and growth with an entire universe to explore . ..”
He looked so appealing.
“...so come on, darling, don’t let me down this time. Please don’t let me down. Please, Jeanne!”
Jeanne—Latin/ Caucasian, mammalian female, blood group—
She would live to be seventy-nine point six years of age. She would mother two point three children, run a seven-teen-percent risk of having at least one child by caesarian section, a forty-one point eight risk of divorce. She would have one serious illness, two minor motoring accidents, run a ten point three percent risk of developing cancer of the breast or womb.
A one hundred percent certainty of having her likeness pinned to a wall.
“No!” she rose and looked at the sun.
“Come on, Jeanne. For me, baby. Please!”
“No!” She began to run, faster, faster . . .
“Jeanne!”
“No!”
Around her the ground heaved, the sun winked in the sky, grass showered like emerald rain.
The world changed.
The lights were the same and the hard, bright whiteness and the soft, constant humming which was more vibration than actual sound. The beat of a heart, Carl had suggested, and he should have known. The beat of her heart—the pumps within her body circulating the coolant through the massed bulk of her memory banks.
The vibration was as familiar as the ghastly immobility.
As the picture on the wall—Latin/ Caucasian, mammalian female, blood group—
As were the inimical shapes.
“That about wraps it up,” said Paul. He looked tired yet happy as if having just solved a difficult problem. “I thought for a minute she was going to be a stubborn bitch but she came through like a thoroughbred. I tell you, Carl, I should have been a ladies’ man. I can talk them into anything—well, almost.”
Carl made a sound like a disgusted snort.
“All right,” said Paul. “So you’ve got no romantic imagination. To you this is just a hunk of machinery.”
“And to you it’s a woman.” Carl repeated his snort. “It must be the spring. Are you sure there will be no more shutdowns?”
“I’m sure. The overheating problem is licked and will stay that way.”
“Good,” said Carl. He sounded relieved. “I’m glad we got it finished in time for the inspection. You know how they are, everything on schedule and no excuses. They think that adjusting a thing like this is as simple as fixing a tank.”
“They should try it sometime,” said Paul. Carl shrugged.
“Well, they pay the money so I guess they have the right to call the tune.” He looked at the picture on the wall. “You’d better get rid of that—they might not share your taste in art.”
“Jeanne?” Paul grinned and twitched down the picture. “Who could possibly object to a girl like that? Old ironsides?” His grin grew wider as he slapped the metal on her flank.
“Well, old girl, this is it. No more bye-byes. From now on you stay switched to full operation twenty-four hours a day. Have fun.”
A computer can’t cry.
That was the worst of it.
Two reproductions of prints by Haronibu hang on the right wall of my office. I know what I think of these. On the left I have reproductions of paintings by Ingres and David. I know what I think of these, too. When I look at the wall opposite my desk, I am a Utile puzzled: There I see a buff painting, five feet long and ten and a half inches wide ...
In the tenth Annual, I quoted (from Russell Baker’s column) some mood-filled poetry emanating from a computer in Florida. Some years earlier I had heard from John Pierce (who as J. R. Pierce is Director of Research at the Bell Labs in New Jersey; and as J. J. Coupling has been absent much loo long from the pages of the s-f magazines), about computer-composed music—and last year, of course, everyone was hearing about it. Now, from Pierce again, but this time through the pages of Playboy (June, 1965) comes word of computer art. And not just words, but pictures—one in particular.
I understand the Inscription in the lower left; it reads: Pour John Pierce, amicablement, Jean Tinguely, Avril, 1962.
The painting is the product of a stupid machine of clanking metal parts, a machine devised and built by the talented constructor of the jiggling “metametics” which have been shown in many countries, and of the celebrated “self-destroying machine” which partially succeeded some years ago in the courtyard of the Museum of Modern Art. .. .
If I didn’t like the painting on my wall, I wouldn’t hare it there. I am astonished that in some sense it is the product of a machine. But I am appalled when I think that a few hundred feet to my left there resides a machine, an electronic computer, which is to Tinguely’s machine as Newton is to an earthworm . . .
As I said, a print accompanies the article. I like the painting too. It consists of delicate brushwork in gray, turquoise, and red, rather Japanese in appearance. Lots of, like, soul, you know?
TERMINAL
RON GOULART
It was while the tacky white enameled android was putting the second scoop of beans on his breakfast tray that Penrose began to wonder if he was really old. Penrose put one hand flat on his face, feeling for wrinkles. The serving android flipped another scoop of beans out of the cauldron set in its chest. This one missed the tray and dropped on to the tan blanket of Penrose’s bed. The android ticked and more beans fell on the cot.
The old man in the next bed stretched a foot out from under the covers and kicked the andy. The machine ratcheted and whirred, then said, “Good morning. Have a happy day.” It rolled away to serve the fat man across the aisle.
“I’m Harrison,” said the old man who had booted the android. He was lanky, weathered. His face had deep sharp wrinkles. He turned slightly in the bunk and Penrose saw that he had only one arm.
Penrose hesitated. “I’m Penrose,” he said finally. “Excuse me. I’m fuzzy about things.” He couldn’t remember even yesterday, he realized now.
Harrison swallowed a spoonful of orange beans. “You know where you are, don’t you?”
Their room was small, metallic, with a low gray ceiling. There were six beds in it. Only five of them occupied. At the far end was a red metal door. “I guess,” said Penrose. “I’m not certain.”
“Where do you think?”
Penrose looked down at his tray. The two scoops of beans had collapsed into a single pool. “Well, this is Greater Los Angeles. And the date is . . . it’s October 15, 2046. Yes, I know that.”
“It’s the 16th,” corrected Harrison.
Nodding, Penrose said, “Oh, that’s right. I’m missing a day.”
“You’re in Senior Citizens’ Terminal #130,” said Harrison.
The men in the other beds were old, too, like Harrison. Penrose touched his face again. “I’m not quite sure why I’m here. I’ve been having trouble remembering exactly. I have a feeling I’m not . . . not a senior citizen.”
“Neither am I,” called the fat old man across the aisle. He was pink and gray.
“That’s Carlisle,” said Harrison. “He has memory trouble, too.”
“I know you, Harrison,” said Carlisle. “You’re a mean old coot. You’re old enough to be my grandfather. You maybe are my grandfather. He was a mean old one-armed man, too. Except it was his right arm he was lacking.”