“Although pathetic in nature, equally obscure beginnings seeded other futures than their time appeared to promise and here we have our altered society of today. Behaviours once regarded as deviant or outside the law when they first manifested have become the norm.
“Lonely and frustrated men who found companionship in the company of rubber female simulacra that in their most primitive appearance were no more than blown up balloons marked the start of our present-day norms. In their time these men were the recipients of scorn and ridicule. They provided subject matter for anthropological documentaries that drew no broader conclusions as to what these behaviours portended beyond expectations for the individuals involved. Although targets of derision and contempt in their shame-filled time, their outcast relationships proved to be the antecedents of today’s ‘robomantics’ that are indispensable in the present social construct as once upon a time was the steam engine, the airplane, the car, the television set, the computer. Each of these developments generated in humanity a new sense of itself, a new relationship to the world by means of the innovation itself.
“People loved their automobiles and sentimentalized about them. Today they love their humanoids. Our ancestors are those deviant, isolated individuals – few in number – who purchased life-sized dolls, brought them home to their cramped apartments, filled them with air from their own lungs, and proceeded to treat these materialized fantasies as live-in mistresses, girlfriends-in-waiting.
“Legs crossed or, skimpy dress hiked high, apart for the glimpse of a V of lacy underwear, lips painted in the shape of a pout, the long-lashed eyes half-closed or half-opened howsoever he chose to think, a hand extended invitingly, these substitutes for flesh and feeling awaited the return of their owner and master – their human lover who looked forward to this alluringly posed pretence after a day at work.
“He would give his doll girlfriend a bath, dress her anew, place her in other locations in the apartment. Fantasy’s release would find him having ‘dates’ with his synthetic intimate in public places where they would sit together on a bench in the local park to look at the sunset together. He gently carried her in one arm.
“Today society is everywhere engaged with robot companions for whom the word ‘doll’ long ago became a pejorative. They satisfy most of our needs and, in all justice, redeem the contemptible and furtive attachments of the original pioneers who clung to female-shaped balloons in their dingy living quarters. These originals had the courage to act out what anyone of us expects and wants from life, and we can honour them for that. Pathetic shards of the endless mirror that is our past, they project our own present state.
“Just as our humanoid entanglements –robomances – might have been foreseen in these aberrant early times, we ought to conclude that there are seeds of the future always about us – unrecognized, possibly scorned, despised, and rejected at present, only to persist, and finally in some future time to be the new norm. Once understood and become indispensable, these serve as the origins of a previously unthought of advance. What is it, then, that in the present predicts what will flower a hundred or two hundred years from now?”
He looked around him for a clue in order to answer his own question. Not the best place. He put down his pen. Why anguish over it? The shroud of the late day had covered most everything. With its indecipherable nicks and scratches, the marred tabletop presented as much human deviance from the social contract as he’d find in this coffee establishment.
When he turned in tonight and reflected on his day, he would find himself under the weight of minor indulgences. His perspective would determine the degree of shame he felt. Molly would be there for him, meeting his needs. He would be conscious, alive; she would not be. On his prompting, she would discourse on some recondite subject, he thought as he laid out his immediate little future.
He felt contented in his biological solitude with recourse to digitalized attention that was his to command and where a foot rub awaited him, but the prospect couldn’t lighten his mood – how could it? It did make more bearable the evening darkness that was attuning the world to the oncoming night. The humanoids were registering these changes with intense acuities of their own – without recharging, a lack of sunlight would bring on their own form of sleepiness. Still, Virgil could request breakfast at 10 o’clock that evening and a refreshed Molly would not balk although her response would come with the incredulous manner and tone that he liked in the form of a remonstrance and a reminder:
“Excuse me, Virgil, are you quite with it? You realize the time, but if you are asking for it, I shall get you some breakfast in the evening.”
A little backtalk kept things interesting, and made for a less programmed life all around. He never quite knew what to expect – “If you wish…then it is as you say” – and, if he got tired of it and his nerves had become a little raw, a simple command rendered her soothingly compliant. – “Of course, Virgil. Fresh-squeezed orange juice and a hot buttered baguette. In a jiffy.” – No matter the character of the response, she would inevitably grace it with a final submission, an obsequious delivery in the Far Eastern mode, as he preferred, but without the artful eyes and kimono and bows.
6
How was Your Day?
Humans and humanoids clotted the streets, patches of darkness riding their shoulders like familiars. Immodesty prevailed. The city’s hot and cool breaths brought refinements to the hammered golds and silvers, tungstens and antimonies of their scanty dress, crumpling at a movement, dispersing in a fine dust glow. Pinks and lavenders showed as bruise marks under the humanoids’ skin.
Flesh was the fashion, therefore outfits skimpy, but restraint for humans. Everywhere synthetic gobs of fat absorbed light’s evening hues. Satiety and longing tangled in a peoplescape of similitude.
Buildings soared, all spire and no church, erections with easy ground floor access, sheathed armadillos against anything the compliant citizenry might bring to bear. Interspersed candy heights alleviated the effect ameliorating the untrustworthy darkness that awaited on all sides.
He looked at the expressions on the faces, different from his, different from each other – the world he looked at was his world alone. The same applied to each and every consciousness about him, although not everyone seemed to realize it. These regarded the world as the same for all and, Bots at their sides, possessed an empty kind of wisdom impossible for him to engage. Little better, the rest had bonded unquestioningly in their infinitely numbered, interconnected fish egg worlds. A day in the sun glowed in the Bots’ dominant peaked expressions. Without a recharge, they would still be good for an entire night’s performance.
So light they would otherwise waft away, the more advanced models had numerous holes appear when a wind arose. A muscular breeze could lift and tumble them adrift and kite-like. In the event of something stronger than a pumped up blow, their turning into swiss cheese would not avail and their owners would then be obliged to carry them underarm.
Virgil threaded his way unable to bear much more of the attitudinal posturing. If he stopped, he would lose his bearings. If only for their owners to save face, most humanoids operated at an intellectual level equal to their human keepers and swathes of the parading concourse abounded in similarities of dress and expression. He could drown in these mirrored groupings.
The brownstone regained – polished to a rosy streetlight hue – he reentered his apartment at back. Above its walled little garden that was another room en plein air, the limitless sky after its sequences of blue and white would be arching in star-fogged black. Often, depending upon the time of day, either the moon or the sun would brazenly be looking down at him, or be spy-like with face roughly hidden or femininely obscured behind veils of heavy and light cloud. He didn’t go to look this evening; it sufficed that he knew a sky to be there for him. Molly awaited with her disarmingly absolute patience, the sound of the door when he came home having alerted her.
The overly familiar smile caused him ag
ain to wonder, was it time for an update?
He had become very used to this expression and the sight of it mostly pleased him. Its designers had taken a dozen or so mouths and made composites from famous Hollywood beauties of the silver screen, choosing in the end an amalgam of Julie Christie’s heartbreaking lips in David Lean’s Dr. Zhivago, the insouciant Marilyn Monroe in Billy Wilder’s Some Like It Hot, and others he could not recall. He’d dug up these films and approved.
Molly’s smile made him feel part of a scene in which they were both performers. As well, they had given her the violet eyes of Elizabeth Taylor. These captivated him and habitually looked down after they appraised. He was never sure how she would do her hair, leaving that laissez-faire program alone as a little extra illusion of her independence.
His meal was real enough. She had promptly brought it to him having first set up the two candles – a ritual that he again reminded himself to end, since it made him feel more alone than otherwise. He let it go, succumbing to the delicate atmosphere that was the world of these soft flames still and bright as closed tulips in a full moon’s radiance. Yes, in a distracted fairy moment, he might even feel himself to be out in his garden. Sufficiently seduced, he tackled his food – a baked potato, salmon, broccoli – and engaged in talk once Molly took a place at the table. He would say whatever was on his mind, although some things wouldn’t have been there had he a human being opposite him. He allowed a pause and she typically began as programmed.
“How was your day, Virgil?” So spoke his hominid better half.
It amused him no end. The inquiry came couched in Molly’s warmly curious tones that seemed always to sound appropriate whatever his state of mind. He could answer or not as he wished. Not having to tailor his response to the tastes and shortcomings of a self-concerned being, he could be himself and he could characterize his day as it really had been. Without fail, the engagement would be reassuring and objective. It might be clinical but it wouldn’t threaten; it would follow his lead. Ignoring the subject of his dear grandmother, he went straight to the problematic heart of his recent expenditure of time and made it both confessional and belligerent.
“I spent half an hour with one of your colleagues, as it happens.”
“As it happens, Virgil?”
“Yes, I ran into her against a fridge,” – he allowed himself a snort of laughter – “and one thing led to another.”
“Intimacy, Virgil?”
“I’m afraid so, Molly.”
“Afraid, Virgil?”
“It’s a manner of speaking…there’s always a moral component.”
“You mean when being intimate with a humanoid?”
“Not exactly. It’s the act in itself,” he said. “Probably, its moral origins are primitive. Just the way humans are made, I suppose. Mustn’t let anything get between us and our God. Blame it on the priests or, if not, perhaps ultimately its consequences are real and in the moral nature of things. Something spiritual to do with our evolutionary path and where it must head.”
“You are still troubled, are you, Virgil?”
She meant that his statements confused her, and he was glad that she had not followed his remarks in a way that might compel him to expatiate upon his religious reference.
“Well, it was enjoyable, but the bad feelings do go, and the pleasant memories remain.”
“An older model, was she?”
“Certainly not new. Why do you ask?”
“You said you found her against a fridge.”
“Yes, I did, didn’t I?”
“And where did you find the fridge?”
He looked into her non-accusatory violet eyes that were without guile, and read there as if threaded together the incidents he’d related.
“Oh, it’s not important.”
He preferred to leave his grandmother out of it, whether or not his interlocutor be humanoid. An awkward silence. Awkward on his part – the human in the mix. As a rule, he had a policy of being truthful with Molly in order to avoid possible complications with her perfect recall. – “You once said, Virgil…By the way, how is your memory? A lot of people still take ginseng in preference to implantations. Would you like me to inquire further?” being one of her responses when they found themselves at cross-purposes. – He doubted that a lie to a humanoid had the same world-disrupting effect as one to a human could entail.
The pause allowed for a change of subject, however trivial.
“The salmon is poached.”
He had already squeezed the twist of lemon over the half-eaten portion of pink-dyed fish.
“As I like it.”
“Yes, you usually prefer it that way, don’t you?”
“It must be boring for you.”
“How do you mean, Virgil?”
“So little variety. Always preparing the same kind of thing in the usual way. Perhaps I should give you more latitude.”
“You tried that, Virgil, if you remember. I served you spicy Thai, and that put a stop to it.”
Spicy Thai. How many years ago was that? His memory of it rose out of the mental mush, and vouched for her objection. Molly’s recall amounted to unimpeded access to ever present facts, happily unaccompanied by a show of triumph. He applied himself to the details of the event and they did come into greater focus. Once again he could see, smell, and taste the dish she had prepared him – “Oh try anything different!” had been his impatient command – and that he had not been able to stomach. “Local” eating had spoiled him, that had been his explanation, not that his present salmon could in any way be said to have come from within a fifty-mile perimeter and its yield of invasive species.
“Let’s have trout next time!” he hazarded, well aware that it wouldn’t be caught by someone with a rod despite the increased number of streams and rivers released from their dams.
“Yes, Virgil. You had voiced a taste preference, but it will be as you wish.”
“Thank you for your compliance, Molly.”
He wondered how she responded to the irony of his words, but he chose to keep things simple and not ask content to delude himself that his humanoid possessed a spark of humanity. She remained silent, of course. His choice of words must have suited her. The deeper irony was her existence. Man’s progress had always hinged on responding to human needs in ways that the world of nature, left to its own devices, couldn’t. In the end, it turned out that humans themselves fell short when it came to providing themselves with human companionship. Many persons felt in some measure that they themselves needed to be replaced or supplemented.
As Virgil had noted, the more human his speech with Molly the more human the response. It must be less her fault than his that dry logic tended to result in a stranglehold on communication. We can humanize literally everything, he reminded himself, looking fondly at her, and that’s how we get along in the world.
“And how was your day, Molly?”
“No complaints. Everything seems in order.”
He would have liked a little flirtatious play here, but nothing of the sort was forthcoming. Her violet eyes showed, if anything, the self-satisfied glint that could be read in the light emission of any electronic entity.
“As usual, I sat in the garden at noon and took advantage of the strong sun today. I am feeling quite energized. There were no clouds and I charged up beautifully and efficiently. I am ready for anything, within limits, as the saying goes.”
Here at last was the seductive touch, although lacking in subtlety and, of course, intention.
“I’m glad to hear that, Molly, but I won’t be needing you tonight.”
“Not at all, Virgil?”
“Nothing that will wear you down, let’s put it that way.”
“I see.”
Her response came unencumbered with tonalities of rejection, disappointment, or complaint. The manner of her delivery – a brief tune breaking free of the music sheet – was what one looked for but rarely g
ot in a human. How expressive a humanoid could be, designed and engineered to charm!
“That was excellent, Molly. Now what’s for dessert?”
“Something simple, Virgil. You left it to me, didn’t you? Apple pie and ice cream. Is that all right?”
“Just fine, Molly. Warm the pie, if you would.”
“Of course, Virgil.”
He watched her go to the kitchen. She was wearing a flower-printed frock that rose as it showed the movement of her body. He looked away thinking that he would exercise himself with a period of discipline. Easily done in the wake of his earlier indulgence and necessary besides if he was to gather his energies whose source lay elsewhere than Molly’s sunlight. It was a luxury as well to be able to put off pleasure until the morrow and know that it would be unconditionally there. Better than legal attachments, with no one disappointed.
Married! – Why have that thought again? On command, the memory of that particular storm-fest whirled into the disposal abyss that lay beyond his mental horizon.
7
Humphrey’s Bicycle
Although it was still early in the evening, due to some glitch or other, Molly’s loosened hair hung to her shoulders. Her smooth, silver screen arms carried the supper things. She felt her thin legs broadening at the thighs. Unconscious at this moment of anything much more than the requirement to provide Virgil with his warm apple pie and ice cream, she methodically performed the necessary tasks, leaving the supper dishes until later. She returned to find him directing her to the garden – “I’m out here, Molly” – where he had been moved to go. If he cared to explain things to her, she would have understood a great deal, with the world’s romance novels as her primary reference in matters of the heart. As it was, Virgil wanted his pie and ice cream and little more, and she registered his satisfaction at each mouthful as she stood watching him. He neglected to have her sit and, instead of wasting her energy bustling back and forth, she would wait for him to finish and proceed from there.
THE BLADE RUNNER AMENDMENT Page 4
