“Um…I don’t know,” said the Tethercorp employee who might have been named Ali. He then turned to Hank. “Dr. Sadler? What exactly are we doing here?”
Hank checked his watch. Just one more minute. Julia had already made the call on her handheld; everything was set.
“I’m sure that Luis,” Hank said, nodding at his old colleague, “has already given you the outline. If the Line were generating a magnetic field—”
“I assure you, that is quite impossible,” interrupted Ali.
Hank forged onward. “Impossible or not, if it were generating a field, that would imply currents. Which would in turn imply—”
“That you boys could be in trouble,” finished Julia.
The second Tethercorp employee turned to Luis, looking bored. “You assured us, Luis—”
Vargas held up his hand. “Yes, I was told that this would not be a purely theoretical argument, that some sort of experimental demonstration would make this worth your time. And I imagine…”He cocked an eyebrow at Hank. “I imagine that now would be a good time to show us what you’ve got.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Hank, “it is exactly time.” He took a deep breath. “About five seconds ago—”
He was cut off by several loud beeps throughout the room. It took him a moment to realize they were sounding from the belts of the Base Station staff. The shortest man grabbed his handheld, jabbed at it, and a voice came out of the speaker.
“We have some activity out at warehouse 194. Sounded like some sort of explosion, and now we’re getting reports of all these…” The voice broke into digital static.
“How far is that from the Line?” Ali snapped. The staff ignored him.
The short man spoke to his handheld. “Repeat that. Do we need fire containment?”
“Negative, no fire reported. Just a whole shitload of birds.”
At that moment, through the glass of the observation deck, Hank saw the fluttering of the homing pigeons. Hundreds, no, thousands of birds. They glittered in the Sun; each pigeon carried a Mylar streamer for visibility.
Julia’s grant money had paid for the older generations of Tuttle’s pigeon-breeding experiment to be sent down to Isabela. These birds apparently didn’t follow field lines quite as well as the newest generation, but they would hopefully be sufficient.
Hopefully. But Hank could already tell the plan was failing. Instead of moving as a group, the pigeons were spreading out, some flying toward the Line but some away from it. He felt his heart drop. Pigeons trained to follow magnetic fields? What had he been thinking?
“I’m worried,” said Julia beside him. But she wasn’t even looking out the glass. “Are we sure they’re all sterilized? I know it’s a little late to be worried about introducing species, but…”
“Sadler?” barked Ali’s voice from behind. “Is this your doing? What are all those things?”
Julia beat him to an answer, and Hank wandered away to the opposite side of the observation deck as his wife started to explain about the pigeon’s specialized navigation behavior. Hank didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to stand there and be stood up by a bunch of damn birds. Right now he just wanted to be alone.
“Interesting stunt,” said a voice behind him, and Hank looked up to see that Luis had followed him across the deck. “Can’t imagine you thought it would work, but…interesting. You should have called me. We could have set up some microgliders, maybe, taken some real measurements—”
“Why are you trying to help me?” Hank broke in. “Why come down here with these two? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it. I just don’t understand why…”
Hank trailed off and Luis watched him for a moment before he spoke. “It’s been three years, Hank. Two and a half without Paula. And I’m happy. Happier than ever. You were just a symptom, not the cause.”
“But if I hadn’t—”
“Then it would have been somebody else, down the line. Maybe when we had kids of our own, god forbid. I can’t say that all the anger’s gone. I can’t even say I forgive you. But you didn’t ruin my life.”
“I’m glad, but still…” Hank turned away, looked out the window at the clear Pacific ocean. “I think I ruined mine.”
Luis sighed. “You ever imagine coming back?”
“That’s not an option.”
“What about an adjunct position…?” Luis started, but broke off when the murmurs reached them from the other side of the deck.
Hank glanced over and saw that most of the pigeons had landed or dispersed. Only a few hundred were still circling. He started to turn away again before he did a double-take. Circling?
With ten long strides he rejoined his wife and the others, wrapped his arm around Julia as he watched the beautiful fluttering Mylar.
“It only worked for the highest birds,” Julia whispered to him, as if a louder voice would break the spell.
About 50 meters off the ground, a group of pigeons was orbiting the Line in a formation shaped like a diamond ring. They had found a closed-loop magnetic field. There was no other explanation; the current had to be running right through the center.
“I’m telling you, that’s impossible,” Ali was saying.
The second Tethercorp employee stepped between Hank and the glass, a serious expression on his face. “This is bad,” he said simply.
“Yes, it is…” Hank searched the man’s badge for the name. “Robert.”
“You think it’s in the secondaries?” Robert asked.
“Where else? It’ll be an extraordinary effort to fix the thing, but I’ve been sketching out some ideas.”
Robert looked him up and down. “How long have you been working on this?”
“Two months.”
Suddenly Ali was forcing himself between the two of them. “Bob. Maybe they trained the pigeons to fly in circles?”
Robert ignored him, gently pushed Ali aside. He looked Hank in the eye. “Would you be interested in a position with Tethercorp? I can arrange to waive the usual interview…”
Julia gazed up at Hank, keeping her face impassive but letting her eyes do the smiling. He returned the look for a long moment before responding.
“No, thanks,” he said, still watching his wife.
Now Julia’s eyes squinted. “Hank, dear—” she began.
“But I do consulting work.” He looked up at Robert. “Based right here in the Galápagos.”
“Excellent,” said Robert, whipping out his handheld. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to make quite a few calls…”
Hank took Julia’s hand in his own and looked out to see the pigeons again. Only about ten birds were remaining—this time orbiting in the opposite direction for some reason. He filed the fact away to think about later, pulled his wife toward him, and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I’ll have to spend a lot of time here on Isabela.”
“It’s not so far,” she said, squeezing him back. “I’m happy for you.”
“Hmm. I’m still nervous as hell.”
“What for? You did it!”
“We did it. But…I really don’t know if I’m ready for this life.”
Julia commanded his full attention. “You’ll never know until you try. And the alternative is—”
“Don’t worry, love,” Hank said, gazing out over the ocean. Three magnificent frigate birds were soaring far above the pigeons, far beyond the Line. “I don’t really know where I was all these years,” he said. “But I do know I’m not going back.”
Shoes
ROBERT SHECKLEY
Robert Sheckley
amage. His central characters are often working men, or men of limited means, slackers or con men, but almost always people who gain a bit of useful insight when technology malfunctions. His stories usually have happy endings, often with a punch line. But the finest pleasure of reading Sheckley is his graceful, witty style and amusing sentences.
He had an especially good year in 2002, publishing several stories that might have been included in this volume. “Shoes,” from F&SF, is Sheckleyan satire in his classic mode. A down-at-the-heels writer buys a pair of hi-tech shoes in a second-hand clothing store, which turn out to be inhabited by an advanced AI who only wants to help him.
My shoes were worn out and I was passing a Goodwill store so I went in to see if they had anything that would fit me.
The assortment you find in places like this is not to the most exacting taste. And the sizes they get don’t fit a normal foot like mine. But this time I lucked out. A pair of lovely heavy cordovans. Built to last. Looking brand new, except for the deep gouge on top of one toe, a mark that had undoubtedly resulted in the shoes’ disposal. The outer leather had been scraped away—maybe by some indigent like myself, outraged at so expensive a pair of shoes. You never know, it’s the sort of thing I might have done myself in one of my darker moods.
But today I was feeling good. You don’t find a pair of shoes like this every day, and the price tag read a ridiculous four dollars. I removed my ragged Kmart sneakers and slipped into the cordovans, to see if they fit.
Immediately I heard a voice in my mind, clear as a bell, saying, “You’re not Carlton Johnson. Who are you?”
“I’m Ed Phillips,” I said aloud.
“Well, you have no right to be wearing Carlton Johnson’s shoes.”
“Hey, look,” I said, “I’m in a Goodwill, these shoes are priced at four bucks, they’re here for anyone to buy.”
“Are you sure?” the voice said. “Carlton Johnson wouldn’t have just given me away. He was so pleased when he purchased me, so happy when I was enabled to give him the maximum in shoe comfort.”
“Who are you?” I said.
“Isn’t it obvious? I am a prototype smart shoe, talking to you through micro-connections in my sole. I pick up your subvocalizations via your throat muscles, translate them, and broadcast my words back to you.”
“You can do all that?”
“Yes, and more. Like I said, I’m a smart shoe.”
By this time I noticed that a couple of ladies were looking at me funny and I realized they could hear only one side of the conversation, since the other side seemed to be taking place in my head. I paid for the shoes, which offered no further comment, and I got out of there.
Back to my own place, an efficiency one-room apartment in the Jack London Hotel on 4th near Pike. No comment from the shoes until I reached the top linoleum-covered step of the two-flight walk to my apartment, the elevator being a nonstarter this evening.
The shoes said, “What a dump.”
“How can you see my place?”
“My eyelets, where the laces go, are light-absorbing diodes.”
“I realize you were used to better things with Carlton Johnson,” I said.
“Everything was carpeted,” the shoes said wistfully, “except for expanses of polished floor left bare on purpose.” It paused and sighed. “The wear on me was minimal.”
“And here you are in a flophouse,” I said. “How have the mighty fallen!”
I must have raised my voice, because a door in the corridor opened and an old woman peered out. When she saw me apparently talking to myself, she shook her head sadly and closed the door.
“You do not have to shout,” the shoes said. “Just directing your thoughts toward me is sufficient. I have no trouble picking up your subvocalizations.”
“I guess I’m embarrassing you,” I said aloud. “I am so terribly sorry.”
The shoes did not answer until I had unlocked my door, stepped inside, turned on the light and closed the door again.
Then it said, “I am not embarrassed for myself, but for you, my new owner. I tried to watch out for Carlton Johnson, too.”
“How?”
“For one thing, by stabilizing him. He had an unfortunate habit of taking a drink too many from time to time.”
“So the guy was a lush?” I said. “Did he ever throw up on you?”
“Now you’re being disgusting,” the shoes said. “Carlton Johnson was a gentleman.”
“It seems to me I’ve heard entirely enough about Carlton Johnson. Don’t you have anything else to talk about?”
“He was my first,” the shoes said. “But I’ll stop talking about him if it distresses you.”
“I couldn’t care less,” I said. “I’m now going to have a beer. If your majesty doesn’t object.”
“Why should I object? Just please try not to spill any on me.”
“Whatsamatter, you got something against beer?”
“Neither for nor against. It’s just that alcohol could fog my diodes.”
I got a bottle of beer out of the little fridge, uncapped it and settled back in the small sagging couch. I reached for the TV clicker. But a thought crossed my mind.
“How come you talk that way?” I asked.
“What way?”
“Sort of formal, but always getting into things I wouldn’t expect of a shoe.”
“I’m a shoe computer, not just a shoe.”
“You know what I mean. How come? You talk pretty smart for a gadget that adjusts shoes to feet.”
“I’m not really a standard model,” the shoe told me. “I’m a prototype. For better or worse, my makers gave me excess capacity.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m too smart to just fit shoes to people. I also have empathy circuitry.”
“I haven’t noticed much empathy toward me.”
“That’s because I’m still programmed to Carlton Johnson.”
“Am I ever going to hear the last of that guy?”
“Don’t worry, my deconditioning circuitry has kicked in. But it takes time for the aura effect to wear off.”
I watched a little television and went to bed. Buying a pair of smart shoes had taken it out of me. I woke up some time in the small hours of the night. The shoes were up to something, I could tell even without wearing them.
“What are you up to?” I asked, then realized the shoes couldn’t hear me and groped around on the floor for them.
“Don’t bother,” the shoes said. “I can pick up your subvocalizations on remote, without a hard hookup.”
“So what are you doing?”
“Just extracting square roots in my head. I can’t sleep.”
“Since when does a computer have to sleep?”
“A fault in my standby mode…. I need something to do. I miss my peripherals.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Carlton Johnson had eyeglasses. I was able to tweak them up to give him better vision. You wouldn’t happen to have a pair, would you?”
“I’ve got a pair, but I don’t use them much.”
“May I see them? It’ll give me something to do.”
I got out of bed, found my reading glasses on top of the TV, and set them down beside the shoes. “Thank you,” the shoe computer said.
“Mrggh,” I said, and went back to sleep.
“So tell me something about yourself,” the shoes said in the morning.
“What’s to tell? I’m a free-lance writer. Things have been going so well that I can afford to live in the Jack London. End of story.”
“Can I see some of your work?”
“Are you a critic, too?”
“Not at all! But I am a creative thinking machine, and I may have some ideas that could be of use to you.”
“Forget about it,” I told him. “I don’t want to show you any of my stuff.”
The shoes said, “I happened to glance over your story ‘Killer Goddess of the Dark Moon Belt.’ ”
“How did you just happen to glance at it?” I asked. “I don’t remember showing it to you.”
“It was lying open on your table.”
“So all you could see was the title page.”
“As a matter of fact, I read the whole thing.”
“How were you able to do that?”
“I made a few adjustments to your glasses,” the shoe said. “X-ray vision isn’t so difficult to set up. I was able to read each page through the one above it.”
“That’s quite an accomplishment,” I said. “But I don’t appreciate you poking into my private matters.”
“Private? You were going to send it to a magazine.”
“But I haven’t yet…. What did you think of it?”
“Old-fashioned. That sort of thing doesn’t sell anymore.”
“It was a parody, dummy…. So now you’re not only a shoe adjuster but an analyst of the literary marketplace also?”
“I did glance over the writing books in your bookcase.”
By the sound of the thoughts in my head, I could tell he didn’t approve of my books, either.
“You know,” the shoe said later, “You really don’t have to be a bum, Ed. You’re bright. You could make something of yourself.”
“What are you, a psychologist as well as a shoe computer?”
“Nothing of the sort. I have no illusions about myself. But I’ve gotten to know you a bit in the last few hours since my empathy circuitry kicked in. I can’t help but notice—to know—that you’re an intelligent man with a good general education. All you need is a little ambition. You know, Ed, that could be supplied by a good woman.”
“The last good woman left me shuddering,” I said. “I’m really not ready just yet for the next one.”
“I know you feel that way. But I’ve been thinking about Marsha—”
“How in hell do you know about Marsha?”
“Her name is in your little red phone book, which I happened to glance through with my X-ray vision in my efforts to better serve you.”
Year's Best SF 8 Page 14
