"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.
(1973)
MISS BOKKO
Bokko-chan
Shinichi Hoshi
Shinichi Hoshi (1926–1997) became the first full-time sf writer in Japan. He was dubbed the Japanese Ray Bradbury, though his talents inclined more towards satire. He became expert at O. Henry-style "shoto-shoto" (short short stories), each one (and by 1983 there were over a thousand of them) bearing a sting in its tail. Shinichi’s longer works are more personally revealing: Koe No Ami ("The Voice Net", 1970), in which a telephone network becomes conscious and takes over civic life, neatly captures his contempt for modern society, while his roman a clef Jinmin wa yowashi kanri wa tsuyoshi ("The public are weak: the government is powerful": words uttered by his bankrupt father) reveals his family’s troubled history, driven to bankruptcy by government bureaucracy and official interference.
The robotic woman was very well made. Being artificial, it was possible to make it look as beautiful as the creator wished. Indeed, the robot had a look of perfection. Its design incorporated all the elements of a beautiful woman. This included arrogance because, of course, conceit is one of the attributes of a beautiful woman.
No one else would have considered making a robot like this. It was deemed a waste of time to create a robot that functioned just like a human. If one had enough money to build such a thing, he or she would have chosen to make a more efficient machine. Besides, there were plenty of humans who needed jobs.
This robot, however, was a hobby. Its creator owned a bar. Like most bartenders, this man didn’t usually feel like drinking after work. Liquor was the tool of his trade and not something he would pay to consume. His drunken customers paid him plenty. So, with time and money to spare, he’d made the robot for fun.
Since it was a hobby, he could attend to every detail as elaborately as he chose. He had even gotten the texture of the surface to feel just like human skin. No one could tell the difference, not even by touch. In a way, this robot looked more human than some actual humans.
The inside of its head, however, was almost completely empty. The bartender had spent all of his time and money on the surface and, thus, couldn’t afford to do much with the insides. The robot could respond to simple conversation. Other than that, all it did was drink.
When the bartender finally finished the robot, he brought it to his bar. There were tables, but he placed it behind the counter. There was less of a chance that people would realize it was a robot from there.
Customers enthusiastically greeted the pretty newcomer. When asked for a name and age, the robot was able to answer. It said little else, yet no one suspected it was a robot.
"What’s your name?"
"Bokko."
"How old are you?"
"I’m still quite young."
"How old are you, then?"
"I’m still quite young."
"So, how old are you?"
"I’m still quite young."