These Security men can be too thorough. Right off they wanted to pick up Kujack as well.
I got hold of the boss and explained that if they took Kujack away we’d have to call off our press conference, because it would take months to fit and train another subject.
The boss immediately saw the injustice of the thing, stepped in and got Security to calm down, at least until we finish our demonstration.
What a day! The press conference this afternoon was something. Dozens of reporters and photographers and newsreel men showed up, and we took them all out to the football field for the demonstrations. First the boss gave a little orientation talk about cybernetics being teamwork in science, and about the difference between K-Pro and N-Pro, pointing out that from the practical, humanitarian angle of helping the amputee, K is a lot more important than N.
The reporters tried to get in some questions about MS, but he parried them very good-humoredly, and he said some nice things about me, some very nice things indeed.
Then Kujack was brought in. He really went through his paces, walking, running, skipping, jumping and everything. It was damned impressive. And then, to top off the show, Kujack place-kicked a football ninety-three yards by actual measurement, a world’s record, and everybody went wild.
Afterward Kujack and I posed for the newsreels, shaking hands while the boss stood with his arms around us. They’re going to play the whole thing up as IFACS’ Christmas present to one of our gallant war heroes (just what the boss wanted: he figures this sort of thing makes IFACS sound so much less grim to the public), and Kujack was asked to say something in line with that idea.
"I never could kick this good with my real legs," he said, holding my hand tight and looking straight at me. "Gosh, this is just about the nicest Christmas present a fellow could get. Thank you, Santa."
I thought he was overdoing it a bit toward the end there, but the newsreel men say they think it’s a great sentimental touch.
Goldweiser was in the crowd, and he said, "I only hope that when I prove I’m God, this many photographers will show up." That’s just about the kind of remark I’d expect from Goldweiser.
Too bad the Security men are coming for Kujack tomorrow. The boss couldn’t argue. After all, they were patient enough to wait until after the tests and demonstration, which the boss and I agree was white of them. It’s not as if Kujack isn’t deeply involved in this Ellsom-Lundy case. As the boss says, you can tell a man by the company, etc.
Spent the morning clipping pictures and articles from the papers; they gave us quite a spread. Late in the afternoon I went over to the boss’s house for eggnogs, and I finally got up the nerve to say what’s been on my mind for over a month now. Strike while the iron’s, etc.
"I’ve been thinking, sir," I said, "that this solenoid system I’ve worked out for Pros has other applications. For example, it could easily be adapted to some of the tricky mechanical aspects of an electronic calculator." I went into some of the technical details briefly, and I could see he was interested. "I’d like very much to work on that, now that K-Pro is licked, more or less. And if there is an opening in MS——"
"You’re a go-getter," the boss said, nodding in a pleased way. He was looking at a newspaper lying on the coffee table; on the front page was a large picture of Kujack grinning at me and shaking my hand. "I like that. I can’t promise anything, but let me think about it."
I think I’m in!
Sent the soup-and-fish out to be cleaned and pressed. Looks like I’m going to get some use out of it, after all. We’re having a big formal New Year’s Eve party in the commons room and there’s going to be square dancing, swing-your-partner, and all of that. When I called Marilyn, she sounded very friendly—she remembered to call me Oliver, and I was flattered that she did—and said she’d be delighted to come. Seems she’s gotten very fond of folk dancing lately.
Gosh, it’ll be good to get out of these dungarees for a while. I’m happy to say I still look good in formals. Marilyn ought to be quite impressed. Len always wore his like pajamas.
(1951)
MANEKI NEKO
Bruce Sterling
Michael Bruce Sterling was born in 1954 in Brownsville, Texas. His grandfather was a rancher, his father an engineer. His work on the anthology Mirrorshades (1986) helped to define the cyberpunk genre, while stories set in his "Shaper/Mechanist" universe – a solar system split between rival posthuman factions, one wedded to computation, the other to genetic engineering – vied with Vernor Vinge’s "Singularity"-based fictions to set the agenda for hard sf in the new millennium. By the time 2000 dawned, however, Sterling had moved on to new territory. His analyses of near-future trends led in 2003 to his appointment as professor at the European Graduate School where he taught courses on media and design. He lived in Belgrade with Serbian author and film-maker Jasmina Tešanović for several years. The couple married and in 2007 moved to Turin.
"I can’t go on," his brother said.
Tsuyoshi Shimizu looked thoughtfully into the screen of his pasokon. His older brother’s face was shiny with sweat from a late-night drinking bout.
"It’s only a career," said Tsuyoshi, sitting up on his futon and adjusting his pajamas. "You worry too much."
"All that overtime!" his brother whined. He was making the call from a bar somewhere in Shibuya. In the background, a middle-aged office lady was singing karaoke, badly. "And the examination hells. The manager training programs. The proficiency tests. I never have time to live!" Tsuyoshi grunted sympathetically. He didn’t like these late-night videophone calls, but he felt obliged to listen. His big brother had always been a decent sort, before he had gone through the elite courses at Waseda University, joined a big corporation, and gotten professionally ambitious.
"My back hurts," his brother groused. "I have an ulcer. My hair is going gray. And I know they’ll fire me. No matter how loyal you are to the big companies, they have no loyalty to their employees anymore. It’s no wonder that I drink."
"You should get married," Tsuyoshi offered.
"I can’t find the right girl. Women never understand me." He shuddered. "Tsuyoshi, I’m truly desperate. The market pressures are crushing me. I can’t breathe. My life has got to change. I’m thinking of taking the vows. I’m serious! I want to renounce this whole modern world."
Tsuyoshi was alarmed. "You’re very drunk, right?"
His brother leaned closer to the screen. "Life in a monastery sounds truly good to me. It’s so quiet there. You recite the sutras. You consider your existence. There are rules to follow, and rewards that make sense. It’s just the way that Japanese business used to be, back in the good old days."
Tsuyoshi grunted skeptically.
"Last week I went out to a special place in the mountains… Mount Aso," his brother confided. "The monks there, they know about people in trouble, people who are burned out by modern life. The monks protect you from the world. No computers, no phones, no faxes, no e-mail, no overtime, no commuting, nothing at all. It’s beautiful, and it’s peaceful, and nothing ever happens there. Really, it’s like paradise."
"Listen, older brother," Tsuyoshi said, "you’re not a religious man by nature. You’re a section chief for a big import-export company."
"Well… maybe religion won’t work for me. I did think of running away to America. Nothing much ever happens there, either."