Anna To The Infinite Power

by Mildred Ames

  Inside the room, she made for INAFT, the communications console, which had a TV screen, camera, microphone, computer keyboard, and a printout device. For a nominal monthly service fee the Harts were able to take advantage of satellite transmittal, hooking into the National Research Data Processing and Information Center. Anna often used the machine for schoolwork. By dialing the proper number, she could make everything from newspaper articles to information from books and periodicals flash on the screen. There was even a button to toss out hard copy.

  Now Anna started to feed in her name as she had always done, then thought better of it. She was not supposed to know anything about Anna Zimmerman. Instead, she fed in Sarah Hart’s name and the number that identified the kind of information available to her. Then Anna slyly asked the machine for the names of all female physicists working during the years 1962 to 1990. She waited impatiently through all the familiar clicking sounds that told her the machine was busily handling the problem. At last, lists of names flashed on the screen, one after another. There were more women in that profession than Anna would have guessed, but not one Anna Zimmerman.

  Finally Anna decided to brazen it through. Sarah Hart, she directed the machine, wished all biographical material on Anna Zimmerman, physicist, who had died around 1987. Anna waited again. To her disappointment, the words “No Information Available” appeared on the screen. She couldn’t believe it. There had to be information about a woman important enough to be cloned. There had to be.

  She stared and stared at the letters until a new thought struck her. It did not say “No Information.” It said, “No Information Available.” As far as Anna was concerned, it might as well have added “To the Hart INAFT machine.” Damn. If her mother had only let them know that she’d told Anna the whole story, they would probably have released the information. But, no, her mother was too concerned she’d be criticized for carelessness.

  And it wouldn’t do a bit of good to try the library in the complex. They would have made sure there was not a scrap of material about her namesake there. Namesake? That was a laugh. She was much more. But exactly what is she to me? Anna wondered. My twin? My other half? My alter ego? It was a question she couldn’t answer. She was only grateful that her search for knowledge about Anna Zimmerman gave her something concrete with which to grapple, a goal, the kind of thing she knew how to handle. She would have to gain access to someone else’s INAFT machine. The information had to exist and she had to have it.

  “You aren’t eating, Anna. Aren’t you feeling well?” Sarah Hart asked.

  Graham Hart had prepared an oriental dinner with a great platter of meat and crisp vegetables, another of meat in a sweet-sour sauce, another with eggs, still another with shrimp, a rare delicacy. Bowls of brown rice sat at each place and at both ends of the table, pots of steaming, fragrant tea.

  “I’m all right,” Anna told her mother, then began nibbling at the food on her plate. Ordinarily she loved oriental food, but tonight everything seemed to stick in her throat. Not only did she have a great deal on her mind, but there was the dinner guest Michaela Dupont to contend with. Anna recognized her as the same woman who had appeared at the window of the apartment across the park on the night of the music, that strange music that had made Anna feel bad. Now she couldn’t keep her eyes off the woman. And it wasn’t because Anna was sensitive to the moods or personalities of others. Yet something about this woman made her feel uneasy.

  Tonight the feeling had started as soon as they’d all sat down at the table. Anna was not only allergic to animal hair, but to many scents. She’d caught a whiff of Michaela’s perfume and felt sick. Then the woman, apparently trying to be helpful, had immediately fished matches from her bag, saying, “Oh, let me,” and proceeded to light the ornate candelabra in the center of the table.

  With the sight of the small flame, Anna’s hand shot to her eyes to shield them. “Put it out, put it out,” she screamed.

  “Oh, dear, did I do something wrong?” Michaela asked.

  Anna could hear hurried movement, then blowing sounds. “It’s all right, Anna,” Sarah Hart said. She explained to Michaela, “I’m afraid the candles are only decorative. Flashing lights give Anna severe migraines.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Michaela said.

  Sarah Hart, her voice cool, said, “That’s all right. You couldn’t have known.”

  Now Anna wondered why the woman should make her feel so edgy. In all her relationships with people, she had felt neither love nor hate. She divided people into two categories--those who could contribute in some way to her well-being, and those who could not. The first group she tolerated, the second she ignored. Then why couldn’t she ignore this woman? I dislike her, Anna thought. She looks like pictures you see in old-time comic strips of dangerous, evil women. Or like some wicked stepmother in a fairy tale.

  Graham Hart had heaped their plates with helpings from each serving dish. After the woman had tried them, one after another, she declared, “Wonderful--just wonderful.”

  Graham Hart beamed at her. “Haven’t you ever eaten Chinese food?”

  “No, I never have. And it’s very good. You’re a marvelous cook. My, I’ve been missing a lot.” Sarah Hart said, “You couldn’t please Graham more. He dotes on praise for his cooking.” She gave a forced smile. “You two could start a mutual admiration society. He’s been singing your praises for some days now, Ms. Dupont.”

  “Oh, how nice--and call me Michaela, please--all of you.” She glanced across the table to Rowan, who sat next to Anna. “You, too, Rowan--but not in class.”

  Anna, never taking her eyes from the woman, pushed the food around on her plate as the others talked. Michaela Dupont seemed completely unaware of her.

  Rowan said to the woman, “You mentioned Beethoven’s Eroica the other day, Ms.--I mean, Michaela. That’s my dad’s favorite, too.”

  “I didn’t say it was my favorite. I was quoting that opinionated Mencken. Nevertheless, I do like Beethoven very much.”

  Again Graham Hart beamed at her. “Ah, yes. There was a man who put the feelings of a giant into his work. Nothing trivial about Beethoven.”

  “You’re right,” Michaela said. “He’s a powerful personality, a man of deep feeling.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. That’s why Tchaikovsky, Chopin, and Mendelssohn never turned out anything with substance. They were shallow men. Beethoven now--he storms, he raves, he growls. He takes us into the depths of hell and lifts us to the skies.”

  “Oh, indeed,” she said. “He’s certainly not a romantic. His great concern is always the eternal tragedy of human life.”

  “You make him sound alive,” Sarah Hart said, a little superior smile on her lips.

  Anna knew her mother was quickly bored with what she called “Graham’s shoptalk.”

  Michaela stared at Sarah Hart for a long moment, seemingly at a loss. Then Graham Hart put in, “But of course Beethoven is alive. He’s one of the immortals. He’ll always live on through his music.”

  His wife rolled her eyes. “Oh, really, Graham--you don’t usually talk in clichés.”

  He said, “A cliché is a cliché because it’s true.” “And that, too, is a cliché,” she said.

  He reddened. “Well, suppose you tell me what isn’t? Everything’s been said before.” He scowled, then added, “And that, too, is a cliché,”

  For the briefest moment the two glared at each other. They were bickering at the table and in front of a guest, Anna thought. They’d never done that before. It’s that woman’s fault. There’s something wrong about her. I knew there was. Even Rowan looks shocked.

  Anna could tell he was trying to change the subject as he said to Michaela, “Which of Beethoven’s symphonies do you like best?”

  She gave him a dazzling smile and said readily, “The Fifth.” She turned the same smile on Graham Hart and said, “I understand you’re a violist.”

  “Yes, I am. Which certainly doesn’t explain my fondness for Beethoven. In
his day, with the exception of Brahms, composers tended to belittle the viola. About all a violist did in an orchestra then was to ‘oompah’ while the violinist played the important part.”

  Michaela said, “I’ve heard it said that the viola is a philosopher--sad, helpful, always ready to come to the aid of others, but reluctant to call attention to itself.”

  “That’s Dad, all right,” Rowan said.

  Anna said, “He’s not sad.”

  “Maybe not,” Sarah Hart said, “but the rest fits. I’m always telling him he deserves more notice and the only way he’ll get it is to demand it, stop being so self-effacing.”

  “And I keep telling you, Sarah, that the viola is a supporting instrument, a role that takes every bit as much skill and, at least for me, is even more gratifying than playing first violin.”

  “You just don’t understand the workings of an orchestra, Mom,” Rowan said. “If a violist played too loudly or too anything, he could throw the whole string section off. Every violist in the conservatory symphony has to deal in the kind of subtleties that I don’t when I play first violin. Why, the violists have the power to upset the whole social structure of an orchestra.”

  Anna saw her father wink at Rowan as he said, “You see, Sarah, you have it all wrong. The real power lies with me. It’s got to say something for my social consciousness that I haven’t used that power badly so far.”

  Michaela said, “That’s a very good thing to have -- social consciousness.”

  Sarah Hart, in a manner that implied that if there was any social consciousness among present company, she had yet to see it, said, “Yes, it is. It certainly is.”

  Her husband ignored her to turn to their guest. “Some more tea, Michaela?”

  “Oh, thank you, Graham. It’s delicious.”

  He said, “After dinner I hope to coax you to play for us on that piano you were admiring in the living room a little while ago.”

  “On the Bechstein? Oh, I’d love to. I’ve been longing to try it.”

  “Good.”

  No, not good, Anna thought. Bad. Once more she remembered the strange music and a feeling of terror ran through her. What if the woman played that awful piece again?

  Anna’s fears were unjustified, however. Michaela played a Bach prelude and fugue. The woman had chosen one of Graham Hart’s favorites, almost as if she had known that was the case. But, of course, she couldn’t have, Anna thought. What was even more irritating was the fact that Anna herself had tried to but had never mastered the piece to the satisfaction of either Rowan or her father. And there she went again, thinking of him as her father. Look at him, sitting there drinking in that woman’s playing, looking as pleased as he would over a perfect soufflé, Anna thought disgustedly. And Rowan was no better. He acted like a little kid listening to a fairy tale. Anna, bored, sulked through the whole performance.

  When Michaela finished, Graham Hart declared enthusiastically, “That has got to be as lovely as the song of the sirens.”

  To Anna’s further annoyance, Rowan said, “You see, Anna, that’s the way that piece should be played.”

  Graham Hart picked right up on the words. “Yes, Anna. I hope you’ve learned something tonight.” She shrugged indifferently.

  “Oh, it’s Anna who plays this wonderful instrument,” Michaela said, running her hands lovingly over the gleaming ebony.

  “She’s taken lessons since she was a little thing,” Sarah Hart said.

  “And I’m not at all pleased with her progress under her present teacher,” Graham Hart said. “She learned quickly enough in the beginning, but she’s not developing as she should at this stage.”

  “Perhaps I could help,” Michaela offered. “I’ve often taught.”

  Anna went all cold inside. “I don’t need help. I’m not going to become a musician.”

  Graham Hart paid no attention to her. “That’s very kind of you, Michaela, but we couldn’t ask you to take the time --”

  “Oh, no problem,” she said quickly. “I have Saturday mornings free.”

  Before Anna knew what was happening, they had everything arranged. She would spend an hour every Saturday at Michaela’s apartment, starting the day after tomorrow. Anna was furious. She contained herself until the woman had gone. Then she said to Graham Hart, “You should have asked me, because I am absolutely not going to her house.”

  Sarah Hart said, “I don’t care for the woman myself.”

  He glanced from one to the other. “I really don’t understand either of you. I’ve never seen you act rude to a guest, Sarah. What got into you?”

  “I told you, I don’t care for her. And that scent she wears--she must douse herself in it.”

  “I liked it,” Rowan said.

  “Nobody asked you,” Anna said.

  Graham Hart said, “And you, Anna, should be grateful instead of complaining. The woman’s an accomplished musician. Not only that, her playing has something yours lacks -- warmth. You could learn something from her. I don’t care whether you like her or not.”

  “I don’t see why I have to learn piano anyhow when I have so many more important things to learn. After all, I’m a very special person with a very important destiny.” Anna saw the startled look in her mother’s eyes but she didn’t care.

  “That’s exactly why you have to learn piano,” Graham Hart said. “It may help you to overcome some of that arrogance. Besides that, you’re too lopsided, Anna. Science is fine, but let’s temper it with some knowledge of the humanities.”

  “I’m not going to her house,” Anna said stubbornly. “I’m not, I’m not!”

  “Then I’ll have to insist,” Graham Hart said. “As your father, it’s my responsibility to look out for your best interests.”

  “But you’re not my father!”

  “Now, Anna, don’t give me -- “ A heavy silence fell over the room as he paused and stared at Anna, a bewildered expression on his face. “What did you say?”

  “I said you’re not my father.” Anna could see Sarah Hart and Rowan exchange anxious glances.

  Graham Hart turned to his wife. “What’s she talking about?”

  Anna opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, Sarah Hart said, “Anna, go to your room at once. You, too, Rowan. I want to talk to your father alone.”

  Anna said, “But -- “

  “Not another word. I said go!” She shooed both Anna and Rowan from the room.

  You’d think we were kids, Anna thought.

  Rowan said to her, “What a rotten evening,” and glared at her as if it was all her fault.

  Well, it was a rotten evening for her, too. Nevertheless, she was glad she’d told Graham Hart he was not her father. She had the feeling she was almost getting even with someone. After all, why should she be the only one to suffer?

  7

  After classes the next day Rowan made a point of seeking out Michaela Dupont. He had some vague notion that he must somehow warn her about Anna. After all, look what Anna had pulled on his father last night in spite of her promise to keep quiet. Poor Dad. Rowan couldn’t begin to imagine how he would take the knowledge that he wasn’t Anna’s father. No, you certainly couldn’t trust that girl.

  Knowing Anna as well as he did, he was dead sure that somewhere in her dealings with Michaela she would sooner or later do something dishonest or disgraceful. And when she did, he would be the one who would feel ashamed, not Anna. Oh, no, never Anna. He wanted Michaela to know he wasn’t the least bit like his sister. Sister! She wasn’t even a relative. How he wished he could let the whole world know. Perhaps he should tell Michaela that Anna was mentally sick. Or would that also reflect upon him?

  He was pondering the question when he found Michaela at her desk, going through papers. She gave him a bright smile and said, “I’m glad you stopped by, Rowan. I’ve been looking for your father all day to thank him for that lovely dinner. What a treat it was.”

  Was she trying to tell him that, his family had more food than
other people? Or was it only his guilty conscience making him feel uncomfortable? “I’ll tell him.”

  “Good. I had a delightful evening.”

  With all that bickering? “I’ll tell my parents,” he said. When she offered nothing further, he shifted uneasily and finally said, “I -- I -- well, I just stopped by to thank you for taking Anna on.”

  “I’m glad to.”

  “But Anna’s difficult -- to teach, I mean.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  She wasn’t making things at all easy. “I mean -- I thought -- I mean, I thought you should know how much trouble Anna can be -- that is, as a music student.” Why couldn’t he get out the words? Because he was ashamed, that’s why.

  Michaela smiled tolerantly. At length she said, “Rowan, suppose you tell me exactly what you came here to tell me about Anna.”

  My God, she was perceptive! But would she understand? He stood at a loss, trying to decide how to tell her.

  She prodded him. “Yes?”

  He swallowed, then said simply, “She lies.”

  “I see.”

  “She steals.”

  “I see. Not a very moral character, our Anna -- would you put it that way?”

  He nodded, feeling deeply embarrassed now. “Maybe it’s a sickness, I don’t know, but I thought I’d better warn you in case she should take something of yours. I wanted you to know that my family will make it good.”

  “You don’t like Anna, do you?”

  The words made him indignant. Why should she say a thing like that? He hadn’t said one word about his feelings for Anna. “I don’t know why you should think that -- I -- I --” In another moment he found himself blurting out, “How can you like someone who lies and steals and has no feeling for anyone but herself? I don’t think she even knows what the word compassion means.”

  Michaela was thoughtfully quiet for a time, then she said, “Sometimes compassion comes only through suffering.”

  “Anna suffer? You have to be a human being to suffer. Anna’s a computer. Why, I’ve never even seen her cry.”