Carbide Tipped Pens

by Ben Bova

  “Hello, everybody,” it said in a cheerful baritone. “It’s nice to be here.”

  Dennis nodded. “Tell them who you are, Will.”

  “I’m William Shakespeare,” he said. That brought a sprinkling of laughter and applause from across the dining area. “I understand,” he added, “that you have a superb theatrical group here. The Masque, I believe?”

  * * *

  I waited until the crowd had dissipated before going over to say hello. His eyes widened when I told him who I was. Then he managed a nervous smile. “Just kidding, Lou,” he said. “I could never forget you. You still playing ball?”

  We walked outside into bright sunlight and talked about old times while we waited for his car to come in from the parking area. When it pulled up at the curb, I asked the big question: “Dennis, does it really impersonate Shakespeare? Or is it just another smart refrigerator?”

  “It’s a lot more than that, Lou.” The door opened and he climbed in and put the trophy on the seat beside him. “I guess though that’s one way to put it.”

  “But why Shakespeare? I’d have expected you to go for Einstein or Brachmann or somebody.”

  “It’s hard to get at the inner reality of a physicist or a mathematician. But with Shakespeare, it’s all lying out there. Read him and you know exactly who the guy was.”

  “Dennis, we’re not even sure that the plays were written by Shakespeare.”

  He sat there, holding the door open. “Let me put it a different way.” He took the q-pod out of his pocket. “Will’s a reproduction of whoever wrote the plays.”

  “Good.” He was still the guy I remembered, a guy who knew how to enjoy a moment of glory. “Great. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks, Lou. Maybe we could get together sometime for lunch.”

  “I’d enjoy that.” I hesitated. Then: “Dennis, would you be willing to bring Will in to talk to my drama class?”

  * * *

  There were fourteen kids in the classroom next morning, and I had a few minutes with them before our guest arrived. Living in a smart house that tells you what time it is and prepares the meat loaf isn’t quite the same as saying hello to a pod that pretends to be Shakespeare. “I don’t know how this is going to work,” I said, “but Dr. Colby is an old friend. If things go wrong, I’d like everyone to play it straight.” They all nodded. No problem. I suggested some questions they might ask, like whether Shakespeare had modeled Lady Macbeth after someone he’d known, or what he perceived to be Hamlet’s fatal flaw. A few of them were taking notes. Then Dennis arrived.

  I introduced him. He said hello and the students applauded. “I assume,” he said, “that they know what this is about?”

  “Oh, yes. They’re very excited.”

  “Excellent.” He looked out across the class. “And I can imagine what you’re thinking. To tell you the truth I don’t blame anyone who’s skeptical. But Will is the next best thing to having Mr. Shakespeare actually here in the room. Ask him anything you like. Where he got the ideas for The Merry Wives of Windsor or Much Ado About Nothing or whatever.” He took the pod out of his pocket, opened it, and placed it on my desk, facing the students. “If I’d known a few days in advance that this was going to happen, I’d have added the visuals so you could have seen him, but I just don’t have that set up yet.” He looked down at the pod. “Will, you’re on.”

  “Thank you, Professor Colby,” said Will. “Good morning, everyone. I’ve been looking forward to this. These last two days have been enjoyable. I’m finally out of the cocoon. Who has a question?”

  There was a flurry of hands. “Elaine,” I said. Elaine, a member of the Masque, had starred in Friends and Lovers a few weeks earlier.

  Elaine got to her feet. “Hello, Mr. Shakespeare. You don’t seem to have written any musicals. Were there such things in your era?”

  “‘Will’ is fine, Elaine. Let’s keep it informal. And yes. There was live music on stage all the way back to ancient Greece. And probably earlier than that. I never wrote a musical, but several of my shows have been adapted. West Side Story, for example, was based on Romeo and Juliet. And The Taming of the Shrew has become Kiss Me, Kate. There are others.”

  “But you didn’t actually write one?”

  “No. Not in the current usage.”

  Al Harmon was the only athlete in the room. “Will,” he said, “if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re not talking funny.”

  “How do you mean, Al?”

  “Oh, all those lines that sound as if they come out of the Bible. ‘To thine own self be true.’ And ‘Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.’ I thought that’s the way you’d be talking.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, let not disappointment be scrolled across your features.”

  “Yes, like that.”

  Will laughed. “I was writing four hundred years ago. The language was different.”

  “Oh.”

  “And there were other factors at play also.”

  * * *

  I don’t think I’ve ever been in a class, either as student or teacher, which was more enjoyable. Dennis was having a good time too. He was seated with me off to the side, literally glowing with pride. I gradually realized this was a test run for him. We were two or three minutes from the bell when Jennifer Quail, who had a talent for getting to the heart of an issue, came through again: “Will, could you write something today like Hamlet? Or Macbeth? Something at that level?”

  Dennis grinned. Shook his head. Was about to say something, but Will got in first: “Of course.” Dennis’s grin turned to surprise. “I doubt I’ve lost my touch.”

  “If you wrote again, would it be about one of the English kings? Or Caesar?”

  “Probably not. There are other, more current figures whose tragic experiences could fuel a powerful narrative.”

  Dennis leaned over. “He’s making it up,” he whispered. “He can’t write plays. He can talk about them, but he can’t actually…”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “Who, for example?” asked Jennifer. “Who would you like to write about?”

  “Oh, Winston Churchill comes immediately to mind.”

  That silenced everyone. Except Elaine. “How does Churchill qualify as a tragic figure? He’s probably the most admired political figure of the last century.” She turned to Maria Bonner for backing.

  “Absolutely,” said Maria.

  “That’s true,” said Will. “But to beat back the Nazis, he thought it necessary to abandon Eastern Europe to the Soviet Union. He sold them out, left them to face a half-century of enslavement. And he knew it when it was happening. Imagine how he must have felt at night, when the lights were out.”

  Nobody moved.

  “Richard Nixon is another one.”

  “Nixon?” This time it was Dennis who’d had too much. “Why do you say that, Will?”

  “Dennis, he was a major figure in making us aware of climate problems. He opened the door to China. He made a number of contributions to the general welfare of the nation. But he did not believe in himself. Consequently he overplayed his hand and ultimately destroyed his presidency. Think about what was running through his mind on that last day, when he walked out of the White House, crossed the lawn, and boarded that helicopter.”

  I pointed at the clock.

  Elaine was still on her feet. “Would you write a play for us, Will?”

  “Of course. If you like.”

  “A classic?”

  “That would be someone else’s call.”

  “Wonderful,” she said. The class applauded as the bell rang. “Could you do a comedy?”

  “I think I can manage that.”

  “How long do you think it will take?”

  “I’ll have it for you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? You’ve already written one?”

  “I’ll do it this evening.”

  * * *

  “I’m sorry, Lou, it won’t happen.” Dennis stood staring at t
he open door as the last of the students left the room.

  “He’s not really a Shakespeare clone.”

  “That’s correct. It will try to put something together, but it’ll be dreary stuff.” He shook his head. “I thought he understood his limitations.”

  “Well, Dennis, anyhow he put on a great show.” Students for the next class were beginning to file in. “Have you tried to let him write something?”

  “No point. It’s not a true artificial intelligence. There’s no such thing. Probably never will be.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s a simulation.” He picked up the pod, closed it, and slipped it into his pocket. “You know what the Turing test is for artificial intelligence?”

  “Not really.”

  “When you put a computer and a person into a room and can’t tell which is which just by talking. Will passes that one easily. But it doesn’t mean he can actually think.”

  * * *

  The drama class wouldn’t meet again until Wednesday, but a couple of them showed up at my office to tell me how much they’d enjoyed meeting Will, and that they were looking forward to seeing whether he could actually produce a Shakespearean play. I told them not to get their hopes up.

  That evening I got a call from Dennis. “I’ve got it,” he said. “The title is Light of the Moon.”

  “Have you looked at it?”

  “More or less.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’ll be interested in hearing your opinion.”

  “Can you send me a copy?”

  * * *

  The title page read Light of the Moon by Dennis Colby. That of course was a joke of some sort, and warned me he probably did not have a high opinion of the play. I got some coffee and got started. The opening pages suggested that Babes at Moonbase might have been a more descriptive title. Three young women arrive on the Moon to take up positions with the World Space Agency and, in their spare time, to find some quality males. Tanya is an astronaut who wants to qualify for the upcoming Jupiter flight; Gretchen, a physicist who hopes that the new orbiting Belcker Telescope Array will finally reveal signs of a living civilization somewhere; and Huian, a doctor who came to the Moon primarily to forget a former boyfriend.

  It was a comedy, but in the Renaissance sense that it was simply not a tragedy. Laughs were there. Nonetheless it was for the most part pure drama. And, I realized, as the action moved forward, a powerhouse. Tanya has to sacrifice her chance for the Jupiter flight to help a guy she doesn’t even like. Gretchen watches as the Belcker comes online and the five superscopes look out toward Beta Galatia and see moving lights! But she realizes that neither she nor anyone else would ever have the opportunity to talk with whoever is out there, because Beta Galatia is eleven thousand light years away. “They’re already dead and gone,” she says. “Like the pharaohs.”

  And Huian discovers that the lonely, graceful moonscapes only elevate her sense of loss.

  * * *

  “You really liked it that much?” Dennis said. He seemed surprised.

  “It’s magnificent.”

  “I thought it was pretty good, but—I mean, Will’s not supposed to be able to perform at anything like this level.”

  “Have I permission to send it to my students?”

  * * *

  They loved it. All except Frank Adams, who said it was OK. “A little over the top, though.” Frank never really approved of anything. He’d thought Our Town was slow.

  In the spring, the Masque performed Light of the Moon to packed houses at the Dan Rodden Theater. It became the first show to leap directly from a collegiate stage to Broadway.

  “Can he do anything else?” I asked Dennis. “Can he figure out how to go faster than light? Anything like that?”

  He laughed. “He’s not programmed for science.”

  “Has he written any other plays?”

  “In fact, he has. JFK.”

  “Is it as good?”

  “Kennedy sweats out the 1962 Cuban missile crisis, knowing that he was the one who caused it when he put missiles into Italy and Turkey.”

  “That sounds good,” I said. “Does Will get the byline this time?”

  “No. And I’d be grateful if you’d just let that part of the story go away.”

  “My students wondered what happened.”

  “Lou, we had the biggest cosmological breakthrough of all time seven years ago. After decades, we finally got the Grand Unified Theory. You’ve heard of it, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you know who figured it out?”

  “Somebody named Winslow, wasn’t it?”

  “His name is Wharton.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course.”

  “He won the Nobel.”

  “OK.”

  “But you don’t know him.”

  “Well, I’m not much into physics, Dennis. What’s this have to do with…?”

  “Lou, I have a chance to be immortal. We have a new Shakespeare.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Except the name is different.”

  Dennis smiled. His eyes were focused on some faraway place.

  EVERY HILL ENDS WITH SKY

  Robert Reed

  * * *

  We like to think of ourselves as creative, and point to the magnificent creations we humans have wrought. Michelangelo’s David, Beethoven’s symphonies, the Taj Mahal, Darwin, Einstein, Jefferson, Buddha, Christ, Mohammed. All creators. Yes, but there is also a dark destructive force in the human genome, its bloody record dating from before history was written to Hiroshima, Syria, and the mean streets of any city.

  Today, in fact, we are living in the greatest time of dying that planet Earth has ever seen. All over the globe, species of plants and animals on land and in the sea are being wiped out, driven to extinction by our own heedless actions. Planet Earth is being denuded of life by its most successful species of living organism: humankind.

  Will we destroy ourselves, along with every other life form on Earth? We certainly have the capability. Do we have the wisdom, the brains, and heart to avoid our blind rush to end all life on our world?

  Robert Reed’s tale says no—and, just maybe, yes.

  * * *

  A fine old farmhouse used to stand on the hilltop, but today nothing remains except a cavernous basement and the splintered, water-soaked ground floor.

  The hideout is nearly invisible from below.

  People are living underground—five adults and two starving, unnaturally quiet babies. The group’s youngest woman is in charge. Nobody remembers the moment when she claimed the role, but she rules her tiny nation without fuss and very few doubts. The others will do whatever she wants, and more importantly, they will do nothing when she demands nothing—resisting sleep and ignoring pain, and never raiding their rations, for days if necessary. And most impressively, they will deny their own terrors, prepared to hide forever inside this one miserable place, defending their lives by remaining quiet and still.

  Outside, morning brings a little less darkness but no end to the deep winter cold, and with the faint sunlight comes the possibility of monsters.

  This is the history of the human species: scared animals clinging to one darkness, while the greater blackness rules all there is.

  * * *

  The Crypsis Project was an international response to a simple, irrefutable observation. Life on Earth was closely related. Every bacteria and jellyfish, oak and Baptist, shared one genetic alphabet. A few amino bricks built bodies immersed in salted water, and the base metabolism had been tweaked and elaborated upon but never forgotten. Life might take myriad forms throughout the universe, but a single flavor of biology ruled this planet. Perhaps one lucky cell evolved first, conquering the Earth before anything else had its chance to emerge. But what about neighboring worlds? Venus once wore an ocean. Mars was fertile in its youth. Asteroids plowed up each of those crusts, spreading debris and vagrant bacteria across the Solar System. In those circumstance
s, every bacterium was a potential pioneer, and that didn’t include any bugs living on wet moons and large comets of the outer Solar System, plus the hypothetical rain of panspermian spores and viruses and lost bones and fully equipped alien starships that could well have passed through the young Solar System. Surely some silent invasion would have left behind a prolific, deeply alien residue.

  By rights, there should have been ten or twenty or even a thousand distinct creations, and some portion of those successes must have survived.

  Crypsis chased that simple, delicious notion. Novel creatures were within arm’s reach. They lived under the ocean floor or inside geyser throats, or maybe they thrived beneath that otherwise ordinary stone in the garden. Unless the beasts were everywhere, eating unusual foods, excreting unexpected shit. Biologists were experts, but only in the narrowest of fields. How could they recognize the strangers riding the wind?

  Armed with speculations and a dose of grant money, the Crypsis team was assembled—biologists and chemists and other researchers trying to find what might well be everywhere.

  No miracle bugs were discovered that first year. But then again, nobody expected easy work.

  The false positive during the third year made headlines. The other world news was considerably less fun, what with sudden wars and slower tragedies. But here was a happy week where humanity convinced itself that an alien biosphere was living in salt domes kilometers beneath Louisiana.

  Except in the end, those odd bugs proved to be everybody’s cousin.

  After six years, most of the original scientists had retired or gone elsewhere, fighting to resuscitate their careers.

  But the purge freed up niches for fresh colonists, including one Brazilian graduate student. More a software guru than a biologist, the woman was nonetheless versed in natural selection, and she had a fearless interest in all kinds of connected specialties, like mathematics and cybernetics and fantastical fictions. And after a week spent reviewing everyone else’s empty results, the newcomer decided on an entirely different test.