The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Fourth Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  Following the ward’s lead, I took my bags to a charming interior room on the second floor, with great braced geodesics of rough cedar, and whitewashed walls, hung with quaint agricultural tools.

  In the common room downstairs, the old man had gathered with two of his elderly cronies. I was shocked to see how that famous face had aged: Dr. Hillis had become a cadaverous, cheek-sucking invalid. He sat within his wheelchair, a buffalo robe over his withered legs. His friends still looked strong enough to be dangerous: crocodilian remnants from a lost age of violence and meat. The two of them had also not registered with the house system, but I tactfully ignored this bit of old-fashioned rudeness.

  I joined them. “Good afternoon, Dr. Hillis. A pleasure to share this occasion with you. Thank you for having me.”

  “This is one of my daughter’s friends,” Hillis croaked. “Manfred de Kooning, of Seattle. He’s an ar-tist.”

  “Aren’t they all,” said Crocodile #1.

  “If that’s so,” I said, “we owe our happy estate to Dr. Hillis. So it’s a double honor to celebrate with him.”

  Crocodile #2 reached into his old-fashioned business suit and produced, of all things, a cigarette. He lit it and blew a lungful of cancerous reek among us. Despite myself, I had to take half a step back. “I’m sure we’ll meet again,” I said. “In the meantime I should greet our hostess.”

  “Leona?” said Dr. Hillis, scowling. “She’s not here. She’s out on a private walk. With her fiancé.”

  I felt a sudden icy pang at this. But I could not believe that Leona had deceived me in Seattle; if she’d had a formal liaison, she would have told me. “A sudden proposal?” I hedged. “They were carried away by passion?”

  Crocodile #1 smirked sourly and I realized that I’d touched a sore spot. “Damn it,” Hillis snapped, “it’s not some overblown modern claptrap with ridiculous breast-beating and hair-tearing. Leona’s a sensible girl with old-fashioned standards. And Dr. Somps certainly fulfills those in every degree.” He glared at me as if daring me to contradict him.

  Of course I did no such thing. Dr. Hillis was gravely ill; it would have been cruelty to upset a man with such a leaden look. I murmured a few noncommital pleasantries and excused myself.

  Once outside again, I quickly consulted my ward. It gave me the biographical data that Dr. Somps had placed in the house system, for the use of guests.

  My rival was a man of impressive accomplishments. He had been a child prodigy possessed of profound mathematical gifts. He was now twenty-nine, two years younger than myself, and a professor of aeronautical engineering at the Tsiolkovsky Institute in Boulder, Colorado. He had spent two years in space, as a guest in the Russian station. He was the author of a textbook on wing kinematics. He was an unsurpassed expert on wind-tunnel computer simulations, as performed by the Hillis Massively Parallel Processor.

  You can imagine my profound agitation at learning this, my dear MacLuhan. I imagined Leona leaning her ringleted head on the shoulder of this suave spaceman. For a moment I succumbed to rage.

  Then I checked my ward, and realized that the old man had lied. The ward’s locator told me that Dr. Somps was on a plateau to the west, and his companion was not Leona but his fellow cosmonaut, Fred Solokov. Leona was alone, exploring an arroyo two miles upstream, to the east!

  My heart told me to rush to her side, and as always in such matters, I obeyed it.

  It was a bracing hike, skirting declines and rockslides, with the sullen roar of the mighty Colorado to my right. Occasional boatloads of daredevils, paddling with might and main, appeared amidst the river’s surges, but the trails were almost deserted.

  Leona had climbed a fanglike promontory, overlooking the river. She was hidden from ground level, but my ward helped me find her. Filled with ardor, I ignored the trail and scrambled straight up the slope. At the cost of a few cactus spines, I had the pleasure of appearing suddenly, almost at her side.

  I swept my broad-brimmed hat from my head. “My dear Ms. Hillis!”

  Leona sat on a paisley groundcloth; she wore a loose bush jacket over a lace blouse, its white intricacy complemented by the simple lines of a calf-length Serengeti skirt. Her blue-green eyes, whose very faint protuberance seems to multiply her other charms, were red-rimmed from weeping. “Manfred!” she said, raising one hand to her lips. “You’ve found me despite myself.”

  I was puzzled. “You asked me to come. Did you imagine I’d refuse you anything?”

  She smiled briefly at my galanterie, then turned to stare moodily over the savage river. “I meant this to be a simple celebration. Something to get Father out of his black mood.… Instead, my troubles have multiplied. Oh, Manfred, if only you knew.”

  I sat on a corner of the groundcloth and offered her my canteen of Apollinaris water. “You must tell me everything.”

  “How can I presume on our friendship?” she asked. “A kiss or two stolen backstage, a few kind words—what recompense is that? It would be best if you left me to my fate.”

  I had to smile at this. The poor girl equated our level of physical intimacy with my sense of obligation; as if mere physical favors could account for my devotion. She was oddly old-fashioned in that sense, with the old industrial mentality of things bought and sold. “Nonsense,” I said. “I’m resolved not to leave your side until your mind is eased.”

  “You know I am affianced?”

  “I heard the rumor,” I said.

  “I hate him,” she said, to my vast relief. “I agreed to it in a moment of weakness. My father was so furious, and so set on the idea, that I did it for his sake, to spare him pain. He’s very ill, and the chemotherapy has made him worse than ever. He’s written a book—full of terrible, hateful things. It’s to be released under specific conditions—upon proof of his suicide. He threatens to kill himself, to shame the family publicly.”

  “How horrible,” I said. “And what about the gentleman?”

  “Oh, Marvin Somps has been one of Father’s protégés for years. Flight simulations were one of the first uses of Artificial Intelligence. It’s a field that’s dear to Father’s heart, and Dr. Somps is brilliant at it.”

  “I suppose Somps worries about his funding,” I said. I was never a devotee of the physical sciences, especially in their current shrunken state, but I could well imagine the agitation of Somps should his ready pool of capital dry up. Except for eccentrics like Hillis, there were few people willing to pay expensive human beings to think about such things.

  “Yes, I suppose he worries,” she said morosely. “After all, science is his life. He’s at the airfield, up on the mesa, now. Testing some wretched machine.”

  For a moment I felt sorry for Somps, but I thrust the feeling aside. The man was my rival; this was love and war! I checked my ward. “I think a word with Dr. Somps is in order.”

  “You mustn’t! Father will be furious.”

  I smiled. “I have every respect for your father’s genius. But I’m not afraid of him.” I donned my hat and smoothed the brim with a quick snap of my hand. “I’ll be as polite as I can, but if he needs his eyes opened, then I am the man to do it.”

  “Don’t!” she cried, seizing my hand. “He’ll disinherit me.”

  “What’s mere pelf in the modern age?” I demanded. “Fame, glory—the beautiful and the sublime—now those are goals worth striving for!” I took her shoulders in both my hands. “Leona, your father trained you to manage his abstract riches. But you’re too soulful, too much a full human being for such a mummified life.”

  “I like to think so,” she said, her upturned eyes full of pain. “But Manfred, I don’t have your talent, or the sophistication of your friends. They tolerate me for my wealth. What else do I have to offer? I haven’t the taste or grace or wit of a Mari Kuniyoshi.”

  I felt the open ache of her exposed insecurities. It was perhaps at that moment, my dear MacLuhan, that I truly fell in love. It is easy to admire someone of grace and elegance, to have one’s eye caught by the
sleek drape of a skirt or by a sidelong glance across the room. In certain circles it is possible to live through an entire affair which is composed of nothing more than brittle witticisms. But the love of the spirit comes when the dark yin of the soul is exposed in the lover’s sight; vanities, insecurities, those tender crevices that hold the potential of real pain.

  “Nonsense,” I said gently. “Even the best art is only a symptom of an inner greatness of soul. The purest art is silent appreciation of beauty. Later, calculation spoils the inner bloom to give an outer mask of sophisticated taste. But I flatter myself that I can see deeper than that.”

  After this, things progressed rapidly. The physical intimacies which followed were only a corollary of our inner rapport. Removing only selected articles of clothing, we followed the delightful practice of carezza, those embraces that enflame the mind and body, but do not spoil things with a full satisfaction.

  But there was a specter at our love-feast: Dr. Somps. Leona insisted that our liaison be kept secret; so I tore myself away, before others could track us with their wards and draw unwelcome conclusions.

  Having arrived as an admirer, I left as a lover, determined that nothing should spoil Leona’s happiness. Once on the trail again, I examined my ward. Dr. Somps was still on the tall mesa, west of the hogan.

  I turned my steps in that direction, but before I had gone more than a mile I had a sudden unexpected encounter. From overhead, I heard the loud riffling of fabric wings.

  I consulted my ward and looked up. It was Mari Kuniyoshi’s current escort, the young model and actor, Percival Darrow. He was riding a hang-glider; the machine soared with cybernetic smoothness across the banded cliff-face. He turned, spilling air, and landed on the trail before me, with an athletic bound. He stood waiting.

  By the time I reached him the glider had folded itself, its pre-stressed folds popping and flapping into a neat orange backpack. Darrow leaned against the sun-warmed rock with a teenager’s false nonchalance. He wore a sleek cream-colored flyer’s jumpsuit, its elastic sleeves pushed up to reveal the brawny arms of a gymnast. His eyes were hidden by rose-colored flyer’s goggles.

  I was polite. “Good afternoon, Mr. Darrow. Fresh from the airfield?”

  “Not that fresh,” he said, a sneer wrinkling his too-perfect features. “I was floating over you half an hour ago. The two of you never noticed.”

  “I see,” I said coldly, and walked on. He hurried after me.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Up to the airfield, if it’s any of your business,” I said.

  “Solokov and Somps are up there.” Darrow looked suddenly desperate. “Look, I’m sorry I mentioned seeing you with Ms. Hillis. It was a bad gambit. But we both have rivals, Mr. de Kooning. And they’re together. So you and I should also have an understanding. Don’t you think so?”

  I slowed my pace a bit. My shoes were better than his; Darrow winced as he hopped over rocks in his thin flight slippers. “What exactly do you want from me, Mr. Darrow?”

  Darrow said nothing; a slow flush built up under his tanned cheeks. “Nothing from you,” he said. “Everything from Mari Kuniyoshi.”

  I cleared my throat. “Don’t say it,” Darrow said, raising a hand. “I’ve heard it all; I’ve been warned away from her a dozen times. You think I’m a fool. Well, perhaps I am. But I went into this with my eyes open. And I’m not a man to stand aside politely while a rival tramples my happiness.”

  I knew it was rash to involve myself with Darrow, who lacked discretion. But I admired his spirit. “Percival, you’re a man of my own heart,” I confessed. “I like the boldness of a man who’ll face even longer odds than my own.” I offered my hand.

  We shook like comrades. “You’ll help me, then?” he said.

  “Together we’ll think of something,” I said. “Truth to tell, I was just going to the airfield to scout out our opposition. They’re formidable foes, and an ally’s welcome. In the meantime it’s best that we not be seen together.”

  “All right,” Darrow said, nodding. “I already have a plan. Shall we meet tonight and discuss it?”

  We agreed to meet at eight o’clock at the lodge, to plot confusion to cosmonauts. I continued down the trail, while Darrow climbed an escarpment to find a spot to launch himself.

  I stopped at the hogan again to refill my canteen and enjoy a light tea. A cold shower and quick pill relieved the stresses of carezza. The excitement, the adventure, was doing me good. The cobwebs of sustained creative effort had been swept from my brain. You may smile, my dear MacLuhan; but I assure you that art is predicated on living, and I was now in the very thick of real life.

  I was soon on my way, refreshed and groomed. An afternoon’s hike and a long climb brought me to the glider-grounds, an airfield atop a long-drowned mesa now known as the Throne of Adonis. Reborn from the depths of Lake Powell, it was named in consonance with the various Osirises, Vishnus, and Shivas within Grand Canyon Global Park. The hard sandstone caprock had been cleaned of sediment and leveled near one edge, with a tastefully unobtrusive light aircraft hangar, a fiberglass control tower, changing rooms, and a modest teahouse. There were perhaps three dozen flyers there, chatting and renting gliders and powered ultralights. Only two of them, Somps and Solokov, were from our party.

  Solokov was his usual urbane, stocky self. He had lost some hair since I’d last seen him. Somps was a surprise. Tall, stooped, gangling, with a bladelike nose, he had coarse windblown hair and long, flopping hands. They both wore flightsuits; Solokov’s was of modish brown corduroy, but Somps’ was wrinkled day-wear from the Kosmograd space station, a garish orange with grease-stained cuffs and frayed Cyrillic mission patches.

  They were muttering together over a small experimental aircraft. I stepped into sight. Solokov recognized me and nodded; Somps checked his ward and smiled briefly and distractedly.

  We studied the aircraft together. It was a bizarre advanced ultralight, with four flat, paired wings, like a dragonfly’s. The translucent wings were long and thin, made of gleaming lightweight film over netted struts of tough plastic. A cagelike padded rack beneath the wings would cradle the pilot, who would grip a pair of joysticks to control the flight. Beneath the wings, a thick torso and long counterbalancing tail held the craft’s engine.

  The wings were meant to flap. It was a one-man powered ornithopter. I had never seen its like. Despite myself, I was impressed by the elegance of its design. It needed a paint job, and the wiring had the frazzled look of a prototype, but the basic structure was delightful.

  “Where’s the pilot?” I said.

  Solokov shrugged. “I am he,” he said. “My longest flight being twenty seconds.”

  “Why so brief?” I said, looking around. “I’m sure you’d have no lack of volunteers. I’d like a spin in it myself.”

  “No avionics,” Somps mumbled.

  Solokov smiled. “My colleague is saying that the Dragonfly has no computer on board, Mr. de Kooning.” He waved one arm at the other ultralights. “These other craft are highly intelligent, which is why anyone can fly them. They are user-friendly, as they used to say. They have sonar, updraft and downdraft detection, aerofoil control, warpage control, and so forth and so forth. They almost fly themselves. The Dragonfly is different. She is seat-of-the-pants.”

  As you may imagine, my dear MacLuhan, this news amazed and intrigued me. To attempt to fly without a computer! One might as well eat without a plate. It then occurred to me that the effort was surely very hazardous.

  “Why?” I said. “What happened to its controls?”

  Somps grinned for the first time, exposing long, narrow teeth. “They haven’t been invented yet. I mean, there aren’t algorithms for its wing kinematics. Four wings flapping—it generates lift through vortex-dominated flow fields. You’ve seen dragonflies.”

  “Yes?” I hedged.

  Solokov spread his hands. “It is a breakthrough. Machines fly through calculation of simple, fixed wings. A comp
uter can fly any kind of traditional aircraft. But, you see, the mathematics that determine the interactions of the four moving wings—no machine can deal with such. No such programs exist. The machines cannot write them because they do not know the mathematics.” Solokov tapped his head. “Only Marvin Somps knows them.”

  “Dragonflies use perturbations in the flow field,” Somps said. “Steady-state aerodynamic theory simply can’t account for dragonfly lift values. I mean, consider its major flight modes: stationary hovering, slow hovering in any direction, high-speed upward and downward flight, as well as gliding. Classic aerodynamic design can’t match that.” He narrowed his eyes. “The secret is unsteady separated lift flows.”

  “Oh,” I said. I turned to Solokov. “I didn’t know you grasped the mathematics, Fred.”

  Solokov chuckled. “No. But I took cosmonaut’s pilot training, years ago. A few times we flew the primitive craft, without avionics. By feel, like riding the bicycle! The brain does not have to know, to fly. The nervous system, it has a feel. Computers fly by thinking, but they feel nothing!”

  I felt a growing sense of excitement. Somps and Solokov were playing from the central truism of the modern age. Feeling; perception, emotion, intuition and taste; these are the indefinable elements that separate humanity from the shallow logic of our modern-day intelligent environment. Intelligence is cheap, but the thrill of innate mastery is precious. Flying the Dragonfly was not a science, but an art!

  I turned to Somps. “Have you tried it?”

  Somps blinked and resumed his normal hangdog expression. “I don’t like heights.”

  I made a mental note of this, and smiled. “How can you resist? I was thinking of renting a common glider here, but having seen this contraption, I feel cheated!”

  Somps nodded. “My thinking exactly. Moderns … they like novelty. Glitter and glamor. It ought to do well if we can get it into production. Commercially, I mean.” His tone wavered from resignation to defiance. I nodded encouragingly as a number of choice epithets ran through my head: money-grubbing poltroon, miserly vivisectionist, and so forth.…