by Simon Ings
“‘There seem to be fewer men who can dance at every ball you go to,’ said one of the girls.
“‘Yes, and don’t the ones who can give themselves airs,’ said another; ‘they make quite a favor of asking you.’
“‘And how stupidly they talk,’ added a third. ‘They always say exactly the same things: “How charming you are looking to-night.” “Do you often go to Vienna? Oh, you should, it’s delightful.” “What a charming dress you have on.” “What a warm day it has been.” “Do you like Wagner?” I do wish they’d think of something new.’
“‘Oh, I never mind how they talk,’ said a fourth. ‘If a man dances well he may be a fool for all I care.’
“‘He generally is,’ slipped in a thin girl, rather spitefully.
“‘I go to a ball to dance,’ continued the previous speaker, not noticing the interruption. ‘All I ask is that he shall hold me firmly, take me round steadily, and not get tired before I do.’
“‘A clockwork figure would be the thing for you,’ said the girl who had interrupted.
“‘Bravo!’ cried one of the others, clapping her hands, ‘what a capital idea!’
“‘What’s a capital idea?’ they asked.
“‘Why, a clockwork dancer, or, better still, one that would go by electricity and never run down.’
“‘The girls took up the idea with enthusiasm.
“‘Oh, what a lovely partner he would make,’ said one; ‘he would never kick you, or tread on your toes.’
“‘Or tear your dress,’ said another.
“‘Or get out of step.’
“‘Or get giddy and lean on you.’
“‘And he would never want to mop his face with his handkerchief. I do hate to see a man do that after every dance.’
“‘And wouldn’t want to spend the whole evening in the supper-room.’
“‘Why, with a phonograph inside him to grind out all the stock remarks, you would not be able to tell him from a real man,’ said the girl who had first suggested the idea.
“Oh yes, you would,’ said the thin girl, ‘he would be so much nicer.’
“Old Geibel had laid down his paper, and was listening with both his ears. On one of the girls glancing in his direction, however, he hurriedly hid himself again behind it.
“After the girls were gone, he went into his workshop, where Olga heard him walking up and down, and every now and then chuckling to himself; and that night he talked to her a good deal about dancing and dancing men – asked what dances were most popular – what steps were gone through, with many other questions bearing on the subject.
“Then for a couple of weeks he kept much to his factory, and was very thoughtful and busy, though prone at unexpected moments to break into a quiet low laugh, as if enjoying a joke that nobody else knew of.
“A month later another ball took place in Furtwangen. On this occasion it was given by old Wenzel, the wealthy timber merchant, to celebrate his niece’s betrothal, and Geibel and his daughter were again among the invited.
“When the hour arrived to set out, Olga sought her father. Not finding him in the house, she tapped at the door of his workshop. He appeared in his shirt-sleeves, looking hot but radiant.
“Don’t wait for me,’ he said, ‘you go on, I’ll follow you. I’ve got something to finish.’
“As she turned to obey he called after her, ‘Tell them I’m going to bring a young man with me – such a nice young man, and an excellent dancer. All the girls will like him.’ Then he laughed and closed the door.
“Her father generally kept his doings secret from everybody, but she had a pretty shrewd suspicion of what he had been planning, and so, to a certain extent, was able to prepare the guests for what was coming. Anticipation ran high, and the arrival of the famous mechanist was eagerly awaited.
“At length the sound of wheels was heard outside, followed by a great commotion in the passage, and old Wenzel himself, his jolly face red with excitement and suppressed laughter, burst into the room and announced in stentorian tones:
“‘Herr Geibel – and a friend.’
“Herr Geibel and his ‘friend’ entered, greeted with shouts of laughter and applause, and advanced to the centre of the room.
“‘Allow me, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Herr Geibel, ‘to introduce you to my friend, Lieutenant Fritz. Fritz, my dear fellow, bow to the ladies and gentlemen.’
“Geibel placed his hand encouragingly on Fritz’s shoulder, and the Lieutenant bowed low, accompanying the action with a harsh clicking noise in his throat, unpleasantly suggestive of a death-rattle. But that was only a detail.
“‘He walks a little stiffly’ (old Geibel took his arm and walked him forward a few steps. He certainly did walk stiffly), ‘but then, walking is not his forte. He is essentially a dancing man. I have only been able to teach him the waltz as yet, but at that he is faultless. Come, which of you ladies may I introduce him to as a partner? He keeps perfect time; he never gets tired; he won’t kick you or tread on your dress; he will hold you as firmly as you like, and go as quickly or as slowly as you please; he never gets giddy; and he is full of conversation. Come, speak up for yourself, my boy.’
“The old gentleman twisted one of the buttons at the back of his coat, and immediately Fritz opened his mouth, and in thin tones that appeared to proceed from the back of his head, remarked suddenly, ‘May I have the pleasure?’ and then shut his mouth again with a snap.
“That Lieutenant Fritz had made a strong impression on the company was undoubted, yet none of the girls seemed inclined to dance with him. They looked askance at his waxen face, with its staring eyes and fixed smile, and shuddered. At last old Geibel came to the girl who had conceived the idea.
“‘It is your own suggestion, carried out to the letter,’ said Geibel, ‘an electric dancer. You owe it to the gentleman to give him a trial.’
“She was a bright, saucy little girl, fond of a frolic. Her host added his entreaties, and she consented.
“Her Geibel fixed the figure to her. Its right arm was screwed round her waist, and held her firmly; its delicately jointed left hand was made to fasten upon her right. The old toymaker showed her how to regulate its speed, and how to stop it, and release herself.
“‘It will take you round in a complete circle,’ he explained; ‘be careful that no one knocks against you, and alters its course.’
“The music struck up. Old Geibel put the current in motion, and Annette and her strange partner began to dance.
“For a while everyone stood watching them. The figure performed its purpose admirably. Keeping perfect time and step, and holding its little partner tight clasped in an unyielding embrace, it revolved steadily, pouring forth at the same time a constant flow of squeaky conversation, broken by brief intervals of grinding silence.
“‘How charming you are looking tonight,’ it remarked in its thin, far-away voice. ‘What a lovely day it has been. Do you like dancing? How well our steps agree. You will give me another, won’t you? Oh, don’t be so cruel. What a charming gown you have on. Isn’t waltzing delightful? I could go on dancing for ever – with you. Have you had supper?’
“As she grew more familiar with the uncanny creature, the girl’s nervousness wore off, and she entered into the fun of the thing.
“‘Oh, he’s just lovely,’ she cried, laughing; ‘I could go on dancing with him all my life.’
“Couple after couple now joined them, and soon all the dancers in the room were whirling round behind them. Nicholaus Geibel stood looking on, beaming with childish delight at his success.
“Old Wenzel approached him, and whispered something in his ear. Geibel laughed and nodded, and the two worked their way quietly towards the door.
“‘This is the young people’s house tonight,’ said Wenzel, as soon as they were outside; ‘you and I will have a quiet pipe and glass of hock, over in the counting-house.’
“Meanwhile the dancing grew more fast and furious. Little Annette lo
osened the screw regulating her partner’s rate of progress, and the figure flew round with her swifter and swifter. Couple after couple dropped out exhausted, but they only went the faster, till at length they remained dancing alone.
“Madder and madder became the waltz. The music lagged behind: the musicians, unable to keep pace, ceased, and sat staring. The younger guests applauded, but the older faces began to grow anxious.
“‘Hadn’t you better stop, dear,’ said one of the women, ‘you’ll make yourself so tired.’
“But Annette did not answer.
“‘I believe she’s fainted,’ cried out a girl who had caught sight of her face as it was swept by.
“One of the men sprang forward and clutched at the figure, but its impetus threw him down on to the floor, where its steel-cased feet laid bare his cheek. The thing evidently did not intend to part with its prize so easily.
“Had any one retained a cool head, the figure, one cannot help thinking, might easily have been stopped. Two or three men acting in concert might have lifted it bodily off the floor, or have jammed it into a corner. But few human heads are capable of remaining cool under excitement. Those who are not present think how stupid must have been those who were; those who are reflect afterwards how simple it would have been to do this, that, or the other, if only they had thought of it at the time.
“The women grew hysterical. The men shouted contradictory directions to one another. Two of them made a bungling rush at the figure, which had the end result of forcing it out of its orbit at the centre of the room, and sending it crashing against the walls and furniture. A stream of blood showed itself down the girl’s white frock, and followed her along the floor. The affair was becoming horrible. The women rushed screaming from the room. The men followed them.
“One sensible suggestion was made: ‘Find Geibel – fetch Geibel.’
“No one had noticed him leave the room, no one knew where he was. A party went in search of him. The others, too unnerved to go back into the ballroom, crowded outside the door and listened. They could hear the steady whir of the wheels upon the polished floor as the thing spun round and round; the dull thud as every now and again it dashed itself and its burden against some opposing object and ricocheted off in a new direction.
“And everlastingly it talked in that thin ghostly voice, repeating over and over the same formula: ‘How charming you look tonight. What a lovely day it has been. Oh, don’t be so cruel. I could go on dancing for ever – with you. Have you had supper?’
“Of course they sought Geibel everywhere but where he was. They looked in every room in the house, then they rushed off in a body to his own place, and spent precious minutes waking up his deaf old housekeeper. At last it occurred to one of the party that Wenzel was missing also, and then the idea of the counting-house across the yard presented itself to them, and there they found him.
“He rose up, very pale, and followed them; and he and old Wenzel forced their way through the crowd of guests gathered outside, and entered the room, and locked the door behind them.
“From within there came the muffled sound of low voices and quick steps, followed by a confused scuffling noise, then silence, then the low voices again.
“After a time the door opened, and those near it pressed forward to enter, but old Wenzel’s broad head and shoulders barred the way.
“I want you – and you, Bekler,’ he said, addressing a couple of the elder men. His voice was calm, but his face was deadly white. ‘The rest of you, please go – get the women away as quickly as you can.’
“From that day old Nicholaus Geibel confined himself to the making of mechanical rabbits, and cats that mewed and washed their faces.”
(1893)
SATISFACTION
Nicholas Sheppard
Nicholas Sheppard is an Australian software engineer and academic, currently teaching in Singapore. He has published numerous scientific articles, several rather less serious pieces for a mediaeval re-enactment group, and occasional pieces of fiction in AntipodeanSF.
Susan arrived home to find David unwrapping a large-ish box in the living room. “What’s that?” she asked.
“It’s a utility robot,” said David.
“What does it do?”
“It feels.”
The thing emerging from the packaging did not seem to have any hands, or tentacles, or other appendages with which it might feel in the sense that Susan had initially supposed. She stood still, peering a little harder at the robot in the hope that she would find some explanation. Then, it occurred to her: “As in, experiences emotion?”
“Yes. It has the best feeling in the world. It’s completely satisfied with life.”
“What’s its life?” The thing emerging from the packaging did not seem very lively, either.
“Its life is to feel satisfied.” David indicated some writing on the now-discarded box, which Susan supposed to explain this philosophy. By now, she could see that the machine took the form of a vertical silver-grey cylinder, surmounted by a white dome. The dome rose to about the height of David’s shoulders as he sat beside it, and the whole contraption resembled nothing so much as a rubbish bin.
“And this benefits us how?” said Susan.
“With this, our household will contain at least 50% more satisfaction than before!”
“Are you suggesting that you’re unsatisfied?”
“Oh no, not on the whole. Of course it’d be nice not to have to mow the lawn, or chase customers at work, that sort of thing. But this baby is perfectly satisfied with its life, perfectly happy with every aspect of its life.” David patted the machine’s dome with apparent affection. The machine, which was not turned on, did not react. “How can more satisfaction be bad?”
*
When the machine was turned on, a few red and green LEDs glowed at the top of the cylinder, just below the dome. They did not blink. The machine was in just this state when Susan found David kneeling before it the following evening.
“How do you know it’s satisfied?” she asked.
“They’ve done tests. It’s passed the Turing Test, it satisfies Integrated Information Theory, and it aced the Life Satisfaction Survey.”
“I see,” she said, without conviction. “Does watching it make it more satisfied?”
“It doesn’t need me,” David said. “But I think I can learn from it.”
“Does it teach?” Susan did not perceive the machine to be doing very much teaching.
“Only by example.”
Susan stared a little longer. “You’ve got the LEDs all wrong.”
*
David was before the machine again the following evening, this time sitting cross-legged with his head bowed, resting his chin on his hands. Susan said nothing. On the third night he was trying the lotus position, but on the fourth night he was back to kneeling. The machine had not changed.
“What are you learning?” asked Susan when David rose—a little unsteadily—from his latest sojourn before the machine.
“It’s hard work.”
“The kneeling, or the learning?”
“What I need to do.”
“What do you need to do?”
“I need to understand the way the machine feels, and take that feeling for myself.”
“Is it feeling if you can make yourself do it?”
“Why shouldn’t it be?”
“I just thought that that was the definition of feeling—something that arises within you without conscious explanation. Otherwise it’d be a thought. And, anyway, why should you be able to feel what the machine feels? You’re not the machine.”
“I can do it,” he insisted, and went to shower.
*
David did not go to work the following week, preferring to spend more time with the machine. He had brought it into the living room, where he could watch it while seated on the comfortable armchair normally used for watching the extra-large television in the room. The television was off, but the machine
was on.
Susan frowned at the arrangement whenever she passed by the living room, but it was not until the third day that she decided to challenge her husband. “You’ll have to go back to work one day,” she warned him.
“Do I? The machine can be satisfied without going to work.”
“You aren’t the machine.”
*
But David continued into the fourth and then fifth day of leave. On the fifth day, he did not eat, leaving Susan to glower at him, sigh, and put the meal into the freezer in case he wanted it another time. But he did not touch it the next day (which was a Saturday, on which he did not have to work), nor on Sunday. The last thing Susan heard him say was “I’m nearly there!”
Susan found David lying on the armchair on Monday morning, his head flopped back on the head-rest for want of any effort to hold it up, and his skin dry and pale. He was not breathing. Susan dragged him onto the floor, kicking the still-glowing machine aside, and began resuscitation. But she quickly perceived that it was hopeless. She sat back, with her hands on her hips and her legs folded underneath her body. From this position she stared at what was left of her husband, and then at the machine that had brought him to this state. She couldn’t blame it, she supposed, and her husband did have such a wonderful smile on his face.
(2018)
NANONAUTS! IN BATTLE WITH TINY DEATH-SUBS!
Ian McDonald
Ian McDonald (born 1960) lives just outside Belfast and writes award-winning fiction, mostly about the impact on different societies of rapid social and technological change. By 2014, however, and as McDonald explained in an interview for Locus magazine, “I didn’t want to get stuck doing the same SF books over and over, successful though they may be. I didn’t want to keep writing books about the developing economy of the year – India, Brazil. I could feel myself getting trapped in that.” A year later Luna: New Moon appeared. Two further volumes in the series have followed, and the project, exploring the intrigue that surrounds the five powerful families who control industry on the Moon, has been optioned for development as a television series.