They went up to a perfect dinner--and incident number two.
The Chief was a sentimentalist and he'd just lost a fine friend. This
friend was his terrier, Murph, who'd been hit by a speeding car.
The story of Murph from birth to death was a fairly long one, but never
dull. The Chief had a way with words. Even Joe, one of the world's
top-ranking non-sentimentalists, was touched by the tale. When they
came to the end, where Murph had lain in his master's arms, whimpering,
as though to comfort him, trying to lick his face, Joe's eyes were wet
and the drink wobbled in his hand.
The Chief finished in a whisper, and looked up from the carpet he'd
been staring at through the account.
And there was Alice, sitting erect, a smile of perfect joy on her face.
"How touching," she said, and grinned.
For one horror-stricken second, the Chief glared at her, and then his
questioning eyes went to Joe.
"She can't frown," Joe explained. "The muscles are there, but they need
massage to bring them to life." He paused. "I wanted a smiling wife."
The Chief inhaled heavily. "There are times when a smile is out of
order, don't you think, Joe?"
"It seems that way."
It didn't take long. Massage, orientation, practice, concentration. It
didn't take long, and she was so willing to cooperate. Golly, she was
agreeable. She was more than that; she voiced his thoughts before he
did. Because of the mental affinity, you see. He'd made sure of that.
She could frown now and she had enough deception to get by in almost
any company. These flaws were necessary, but they were still flaws and
brought her closer to being--human.
* * * * *
At the office on Saturday morning, Sam Tullgren dropped in. Sam said,
"I've been hearing things, Joseph."
"From Vera? At the Center?"
Sam shook his head. "Vera's been too busy to have much time for the
director. She's our most popular number." Sam paused. "About the new
one. Hear she's something to see."
"You heard right. She's practically flawless, Sam. She's just what a
man needs at home." His voice, for some reason, didn't indicate the
enthusiasm he should have felt.
Sam chewed one corner of his mouth. "Why not bring her over, say,
tonight? We'll play some bridge."
That would be something. Two minds, perfectly in harmony, synchronized,
working in partnership. Joe's smile was smug. "We'll be there. At
eight-thirty."
Driving over to Westchester that night, Joe told Alice, "Sam's a
timid bidder. His wife's inclined to overbid. Plays a sacrificing
game when she knows it will gain points. Our job will be to make her
oversacrifice."
Sam's eyes opened at sight of her; his wife's narrowed. Joe took pride
in their reaction, but it was a strange, impersonal pride.
They had a drink and some small talk, and settled around the table. It
was more like a seance than a game.
They bid and made four clubs, a heart. Sam's wife got that determined
look. With the opposition holding down one leg of the rubber, she
figured to make the next bid a costly one.
She won it with six diamonds, and went down nine tricks, doubled. Sam
started to say something, after the debacle, but one look at his wife's
anguished countenance stopped him short of audibility.
Sam said consolingly, "I'm such a lousy bidder, dear. I must have given
you the wrong idea of my hand."
* * * * *
Next time, Sam made up for his timidity. Sam, with one heart in his
hand, tried a psychic. "One heart," he said firmly.
Sam knew there was a good chance the hearts were in the oppositions'
hands, and this looked like a fine defensive tactic.
However, his wife, with a three-suit powerhouse, couldn't conceive of a
psychic from Sam. She had need of only a second round stopper in hearts
and a small slam in no trump was in the bag. She had no hearts, but
timid Sam was undoubtedly holding the ace-king.
She bid six no-trump, which was conservative for her. She didn't want
to make the mistake of having Sam let the bid die.
Joe had the ace, king, queen and jack of hearts and a three to lead to
Alice's hand. Alice finished up the hearts for a total of seven tricks,
and this time it was Mrs. Tullgren who opened her mouth to speak.
But she remembered Sam's kindness in the former hand, and she said,
"It was all my fault, darling. To think I couldn't recognize a
psychic, just because it came from you. I think we're overmatched,
sweet." She paused to smile at Joe. "Up against the man who invented
the comptin-reduco-determina." She added, as an afterthought, "And his
charming, brilliant new wife."
Which brought about incident number three.
Alice turned to Mrs. Tullgren sweetly and asked, "Don't you really
understand the comptin-reduco-determina?"
"Not even faintly," Mrs. Tullgren answered. She smiled at Alice.
The smile faded after about ten minutes. For Alice was telling her
_all_ about the comptin-reduco-determina. For an hour and nineteen
minutes, Alice talked to this woman who had been humiliated twice,
telling her all the things about the famous thinking machine that Mrs.
Tullgren didn't want to know.
It wasn't until Alice was through talking animatedly that the entranced
Joe began to suspect that perhaps the Tullgrens weren't as interested
in the dingus as a scientific mind would assume.
They weren't. There was a strain after that, a decided heaviness to the
rest of the evening. Sam seemed to sigh with relief when they said good
night.
In the car, Joe was thoughtful. Halfway home, he said, "Darling, I
think you know too much--for a female, that is. I think you'll have to
have a go with the knowledge-instiller. In reverse, of course."
"Of course," she agreed.
"I don't object to females knowing a lot. The world does."
"Of course," she said.
She was a first model and, therefore, experimental. These bugs were
bound to show up. She was now less knowing, more deceptive, and she
could frown.
She began to remind him of Vera, which didn't make sense.
Alice was sad when he was sad, gay when he was gay, and romantic to the
same split-degree in the same split-second. She even told him his old
jokes with the same inflection he always used.
Their mood affinity was geared as closely as the
comptin-reduco-determina. What more could a man want? And, damn it, why
should Vera's perfume linger in that back bedroom?
* * * * *
The fumigators could do nothing. They left, after the third trip,
shaking their heads. Joe stood in the doorway, insisting he could still
smell it.
Alice said, "It's probably mental, dear. Perhaps you
still--still--what's that word? Perhaps you still love her."
"How could you think that?" he asked. "How? How could you think that
unless I was thinking it?"
"I couldn't. I love you, too, Joe, but you know why that is."
"What do you mean?"
"We both love you, Joe."
"Both? You and Vera?"
"No. You and I, we both love _you_."
"That," said Joe peevishly, "is ridiculous. If you could think for
yourself, you'd know it was ridiculous."
"Of course," she agreed. And frowned, because he was frowning.
"You act like a robot," Joe said.
She nodded.
"That's all you are," Joe went on evenly, "a robot. No volition."
She nodded, frowning.
"I'm sick of it."
She said nothing, sympathetically looking sick.
And then he smiled and said, "I'm not stumped. Not the inventor of the
comptin-reduco-determina. By Harry, I'll give you volition. I'll give
you enough volition to make you dizzy."
And because he was smiling, she was smiling. And only a very perceptive
person might notice that her smile seemed to have an intensity, an
anticipation slightly beyond his.
He got to work on it that night. He would have to erase some of his
mental background from her brain. He wanted her no less intelligent, no
less discerning, but with enough of a change in background to give her
a viewpoint of her own. He labored until midnight, and tumbled into
bed with a headache.
Next morning, at breakfast, he told her, "We'll try it out tonight.
After that, you'll be a person."
"Of course. And will you love me, Joe?"
"More coffee, please," he answered.
At the office, there was another note from his secretary: _Mr. Burke
wants to see you. At your convenience._
At your convenience? Was Burke going soft? Joe went right in.
* * * * *
Burke was smiling, a miracle in itself. Burke's voice was jovial. "The
Chief's been telling me about the new wife, Joe. I guess I owe you an
apology."
"Not at all," Joe said. "I had no right to be rude. I was a little
overworked--at home. I wasn't myself."
Burke nodded smugly, soaking it up. "Beautiful, the Chief tells me. Am
I going to meet her, Joe?"
"If you want. How about tonight, for dinner? I've got something new
planned. I'm giving her volition. Maybe you'll want to watch."
"Volition?"
Joe went on to explain about volition, making it as simple as he could,
to match Burke's mind.
"That," Burke said when he'd finished, "I want to see."
They went home in the crowded Inglewood tube. Sam was there, but
Sam seemed to avoid them, for some reason. All the way home, Joe had
the uncomfortable feeling that Burke didn't believe any part of this
business, that Burke was making the trip only to substantiate his own
misconceptions.
But when Alice came into the living room, smiling brightly, extending
her hand to the Senior Assistant, Joe had a gratifying glimpse of
Burke's face.
Burke was lost. Burke stared and swallowed and grinned like a green
stage hand at a burlesque show. Burke's smile was perpetual and
nauseating. Even in the face of Alice's cool reserve.
The dinner was fine, the liquor mellow.
Then Joe said, "Well, Alice, it's time for the volition. It's time for
your _birth_ as a person."
"Of course," she said, and smiled.
They went down into the basement, the three of them; she sat in the
chair he'd prepared and he clamped on the wired helmet and adjusted the
electrodes.