A Voice in the Night

by Jack McDevitt

  “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 at LaSalle. The Masque, I believe?”

  I waited until the crowd had dissipated before going over to say hello. His eyes widened when I identified myself. 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.” Dennis 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 two days later, 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 William 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 everybody knows what this is all 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.

  She 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, that 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 can have it for you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? You’ve already written one?”

  “I’ll do it this evening.”

  Dennis broke in to explain he and Will wouldn’t be able to get back for a few days.

  “I’m sorry, Lou. I hate to tell you
this but it isn’t going to happen.” Dennis stood staring at the 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, turn out the lights, and can’t tell which one you’re talking to just by asking questions. 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 it. 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 is a physicist who hopes that the new orbiting Belcker Telescope Array will finally reveal signs of a living civilization somewhere; and Jeri is 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 on line 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 11,000 light years away. “They’re already dead and gone,” she says. “Like the pharaohs.”

  And Jeri 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 give it to my students?”

  They loved it. All except Frank Adams, who said it was okay. “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 first-strike 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.”

  “Okay.”

  “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 Stephen Hawking.”

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

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

  OCULUS

  The cockpit was illuminated by the instrument panel, and by the soft glow from Autumn’s rings. As we climbed toward orbit, George Blasingame sat quietly in the righthand seat, utterly absorbed by the knowledge of what we were carrying. The ultimate cargo. “You know, Kellie,” he said at last, “we already have the critical information about them. Even if we didn’t have the books, we have the window.” I knew he was talking about the oculus, the big circular window in the main room of the long-dead alien base below. From its mountaintop perch it looked out over the craggy moonscape, and provided a matchless view of the spectacle in the skies. But I had no idea what he meant.

  He was, I think, about to explain what it must have been like when the lights went off. When everything went off. Whatever the problem was, I never saw it coming. It ripped through the electronics, killed the AI, took out the thrusters and the spike, shut down life support, blew communications, and knocked out almost every onboard system we had. Delta slowed and staggered. We were still going up, but we were losing momentum and if nothing changed we’d soon be on our way back down.

  “What the hell was that?” George gripped the arms of his chair and looked wildly around at me.

  We were twenty-some clicks above the surface.

  “Kellie—” he howled, his expression suggesting that I was responsible.

  “We’ll be fine,” I told him smoothly while I tried to get my systems back on line.

  “The cargo,” he reminded me. Yes. Don’t lose the cargo. Whatever else happens.

  We had four hundred and some odd books stashed in Delta’s storage, frozen in packs after centuries of being exposed to the void. Property of whoever had owned and lived on this moon. That was a long time ago, maybe when Charlemagne was running things. We’d brought them out of the house and placed them carefully in specially prepared containers. When we got them up to orbit, a scenario that was beginning to look problematical, George was going to thaw them out, scan them, and produce copies. The copies would eventually, it was hoped, be translated. He was going to scan them because George doubted we’d ever be able to get the pages apart without damaging the individual volumes. But he’d arranged to have one of the techs remove a navigational scanner from the hull of the Bromfield and adapt it for ultra-short-range work. He was especially proud of that bit of jury-rigging. I doubted it would work. Navigational scanners just don’t lend themselves to that kind of close-in effort. But what did I know?

  The books constituted, the authorities were saying, the most valuable payload that had ever been moved in from offworld. For the first time we were going to get an insight into how other minds think. Who knew what the books might contain? The Academy director herself had overseen the operation, had taken a moment to remind me what I was carrying. All you have to do, Kellie, is get them to th
e Bromfield. So Kellie had become Columbus discovering the new world. Don’t be Carlyle landing on Mars. Don’t fly into a mountain.

  Ha ha ha.

  “Kellie, do something!” demanded George.

  When the spike fails, the best thing, according to the manual, is to give it some time. Status lamps started to blink on. Backups were trying to activate. The fans squealed and a cool draft whispered out of the air ducts. The thrusters came to life and gave us a kick. I rotated them down so they could supply a bit more push.

  That helped. But we still didn’t have enough to reach orbit. George’s eyes got big and round.

  Fortunately, we hadn’t lost hull integrity. But the spike showed zero lift. The thrusters would never be enough to keep us from getting smeared across the landscape. And anyhow I’d exhaust the fuel if I had to keep burning it at its current rate. We needed the spike. I tried to reactivate it. The needles quivered, settled back to nil. I tried again. “We might have a problem,” I said.

  Let me dispel any preconceptions at this point by mentioning that I’d known George Blasingame almost five years. He was no coward. I’ve seen him face down bureaucratic bullies, and I watched him go into a temple on Quraqua during a major earthquake to salvage a couple of pots. So when he started looking terrified I knew what the problem was.

  “The books,” he said.

  “I’m doing everything I can, George.”

  “I don’t believe this. I’ve been riding these damned things for twenty years. And today of all days—.” He said it as if having any of the earlier landers go down with him in it would have been a small matter.