The basic idea seemed sound. Anything with the innate elegance of Somps’ aircraft had definite appeal for today’s leisure society. However, it would have to be designed and promoted properly, and Somps, who struck me as something of an idiot savant, was certainly not the man for the job. You could tell just from the way he mooned over it that the machine was, in its own odd way, a labor of love. The fresh grease on his cuffs showed that Somps had spent precious hours up on the plateau, fiddling with his knobs and switches, while his bride-to-be despaired.
Such technician’s dedication might have passed muster in the days of the steam engine. But in today’s more humane age Somps’ behavior seemed close to criminal. This head-in-the-clouds deadbeat saw my poor Leona as a convenient way to finance his pointless intellectual curiosity.
My encounter with the two ex-cosmonauts gave me much to ponder. I withdrew with polite compliments and rented one of the local hanggliders. I circled the Throne of Adonis a few times to establish my bona fides, and then flew back to the hogan.
The effect was enchanting. Cradled by the machine’s slow and careful swoops and glides, one felt the majesty of an archangel. Yet I found myself wondering what it would be like without the protective shroud of computer piloting. It would be cold sweat and naked risk and a rush of adrenalin, in which the shadowed crevices far beneath one’s feet would be, not an awesome panorama, but a sheer drop!
I admit I was glad to send the machine back to the mesa on its own.
Inside the hogan I enjoyed the buffet supper, carefully avoiding the reeking plates of scorched beef served to the elders. (“Barbecue,” they called it. I call it murder.) I sat at a long table with Claire Berger, Percival Darrow, and several of Leona’s West Coast friends. Mari herself did not make an appearance.
Leona arrived later, when machines had cleared the meal away and the younger guests had gathered round the fire. Leona and I pretended to avoid one another, but traded stolen glances in the firelight. Under the influence of the mellow light and the landscape, the talk drifted to those poles of the modern existence: the beautiful and the sublime. We made lists: the land is beautiful, the sea is sublime; day is beautiful, night is sublime; craft is beautiful, art is sublime, and so forth.
The postulate that the male is beautiful while the female is sublime provoked much heated comment. While the discussion raged, Darrow and I unstrapped our wards and left them in the common room. Anyone checking our location would see our signals there, while we actually conspired among the machines in the kitchen.
Darrow revealed his plan. He meant to accuse Solokov of cowardice, and seize his rival’s glory by testing the Dragonfly himself. If necessary, he would steal the machine. Solokov had done nothing more than take a few fluttering efforts around the top of the mesa. Darrow, on the contrary, meant to fling himself into space and break the machine to his will.
“I don’t think you realize the danger involved,” I said.
“I’ve been flying since I was a kid,” Darrow sneered. “Don’t tell me you’re spooked too.”
“Those were computer-guided,” I said. “This is a blind machine. It could kill you.”
“Out on Big Sur we used to rig them,” Darrow said. “We’d cut out the autopilot on a dare. It’s simple if you find the main sensor thingamajig. It’s illegal, but I’ve done it. Anyway, it makes it easy for you, right? If I break my neck, your Somps will look like a criminal, won’t he? He’ll be discredited.”
“This is outrageous!” I said, but was unable to restrain a smile of admiration. There was a day when my blood ran as hot as Darrow’s, and, if I no longer wore my heart on my sleeve, I could still admire the grand gesture.
“I’m going to do it anyway,” Darrow insisted. “You needn’t worry on my account. You’re not my keeper, and it’s my decision.”
I thought it over. Clearly he could not be argued out of it. I could inform against him, but such a squalid betrayal was completely beneath me. “Very well,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. “How can I help?”
Our plans progressed rapidly. We then returned to the gathering and quietly resumed our wrist-wards and our places near the hearth. To my delight, I found that Leona had left a private note on my ward. We had a midnight assignation.
After the party broke up I waited in my room for her arrival. At last the welcome glow of lamplight came down the corridor. I eased the door open silently.
She wore a long nightgown, which she did not remove, but otherwise we spared ourselves nothing, except for the final sating pleasure. When she left an hour later, with a last tender whisper, my nerves were singing like synthesizers. I forced myself to take two pills and waited for the ache to subside. For hours, unable to sleep, I stared at the geodesic cedar beams of the ceiling, thinking of spending days, weeks, years with this delightful woman.
Darrow and I were up early next morning, our minds grainy and sharp with lack of sleep and a lover’s adrenalin. We lurked in ambush for the unwitting Solokov as he returned from his morning jog.
We mousetrapped him badly as he prepared to go in for a much-needed shower. I stopped him, enthusing about my glider-flight. Darrow then joined our conversation “accidentally” and made a number of sharp comments. Solokov was genial and evasive at first, shrugging off Darrow’s insinuations. But my loud, innocent questions made things worse for poor Fred. He did his best to explain Somps’ cautious testing program for the Dragonfly. But when he was forced to admit that he had only been in the air twenty seconds, the gathering crowd tittered audibly.
Things became hectic with the arrival of Crocodile #1. I had since been informed that this obnoxious old man was Craig Deakin, a medical doctor. He had been treating Dr. Hillis! Small wonder that Leona’s father was near death.
Frankly, I’ve always had a morbid fear of doctors. The last time I was touched by an actual human doctor was when I was a small child, and I can still remember his probing fingers and cold eyes. Imagine it, my dear MacLuhan—putting your health, your very life, into the charge of a fallible human being, who may be drunk, or forgetful, or even corrupt! Thank God that medical expert-systems have made the profession almost obsolete.
Deakin entered the fray with a cutting remark toward Darrow. By now my blood was up, and I lost all patience with this sour old relic. To make things short, we created a scene, and Darrow and I got the best of it. Darrow’s fiery rhetoric and my icy sarcasm made an ideal combination, and poor Solokov, gravely puzzled and embarrassed, was unwilling to fight back. As for Dr. Deakin, he simply disgraced himself. It took no skill to show him up for what he was—an arrogant, tasteless old fraud, completely out of touch with the modern world.
Solokov finally fled to the showers, and we carried the day. Deakin, still leaking venom, tottered off shortly thereafter. I smiled at the reaction of our small, eavesdropping audience. They hustled out of Deakin’s way as if afraid of his touch. And small wonder! Imagine it, MacLuhan—probing diseased flesh, for money! It gives you a chill.
Flushed with success, we now sought out the unsuspecting Marvin Somps.
To our surprise, our wards located Somps with Mari Kuniyoshi and her ever-present foil, Claire Berger. The three of them were watching the preparations for the evening’s festivities: projection screens and an address system were being erected in the rock garden behind the hogan.
I met them first while Darrow hung back in the trees. I greeted Somps with civil indifference, then gently detached Mari from the other two. “Have you seen your Mr. Darrow recently?” I murmured.
“Why, no,” she said, and smiled. “Your doing, yes?”
I shrugged modestly. “I trust things have gone well with Fred. What’s he doing here, anyway?”
“Oh,” she said, “Old Hillis asked him to help Somps. Somps has invented some dangerous machine that no one can control. Except for Fred, of course.”
I was skeptical. “Word inside was that the thing has scarcely left the ground. I had no idea Fred was the pilot. Such timidity certai
nly doesn’t seem his style.”
“He was a cosmonaut!” Mari said hotly.
“So was he,” I said, lifting an eyebrow at Somps. In the gentle breeze Somps’ lank hair was flying all over his head. He and Claire Berger were in some animated technician’s shoptalk about nuts and bolts, and Somps’ long hands flopped like a puppet’s. In his rumpled, tasteless business suit, Somps looked the very opposite of spacefaring heroism. I smiled reassuringly. “It’s not that I doubt Fred’s bravery for a moment, of course. He probably distrusts Somps’ design.”
Mari narrowed her eyes and looked sidelong at Somps. “You think so?”
I shrugged. “They say in camp that flights have only lasted ten seconds. People were laughing about it. But it’s all right. I don’t think anyone knows it was Fred.”
Mari’s eyes flashed. She advanced on Somps. I lifted my hat and smoothed my hair, a signal to the lurking Darrow.
Somps was only too happy to discuss his obsession. “Ten seconds? Oh, no, it was twenty. I timed it myself.”
Mari laughed scornfully. “Twenty? What’s wrong with it?”
“We’re in preliminary test mode. These are novel methods of lift production. It’s a whole new class of fluid dynamic uses,” Somps droned. “The testing’s slow, but that’s our methodical risk avoidance.” He yanked an inkstained composition book from inside his rumpled jacket. “I have some stroke cycle summaries here…”
Mari looked stunned. I broke in casually. “I heard that the go-slow approach was your pilot’s decision.”
“What? Fred? Oh no, he’s fine. I mean, he follows orders.”
Darrow ambled forward, his hands in his pockets. He was looking at almost everything except the four of us. He was so elaborately casual that I feared Mari would surely catch on. But that remark about public laughter had stung Mari’s Japanese soul. “Follows orders?” she told Somps tightly. “People are laughing. You are crushing your test pilot’s face.”
I took her arm. “For heaven’s sake, Mari. This is a commercial development. You can’t expect Dr. Somps to put his plane into the hands of a daredevil.”
Somps smiled gratefully. Suddenly Claire Berger burst out in his defense. “You need training and discipline for the Dragonfly. You can’t just jump in and pop off like bread from a toaster! There are no computers on Marvin’s flyer.”
I signaled Darrow. He closed in. “Flyer?” he ad-libbed. “You’re heading for the airfield, too?”
“We were just discussing Dr. Somps’ aircraft,” I said artlessly.
“Oh, the Ten-Second Wonder?” Darrow said, grinning. He crossed his muscular arms. “I’d certainly like a shot at that. I hear it has no computer and has to be flown by feel! Quite a challenge, eh?”
I frowned. “Don’t be a fool, Percival. It’s far too risky for an amateur. Besides, it’s Fred Solokov’s job.”
“It’s not his job,” Somps mumbled. “He’s doing a favor.”
But Darrow overrode him. “Sounds to me like it’s a bit beyond the old man. You need someone with split-second reflexes, Dr. Somps. I’ve flown by feel before; quite often in fact. If you want someone to take it to the limit, I’m your man.”
Somps looked wretched. “You’d crash it. I need a technician, not a daredevil.”
“Oh,” said Darrow with withering scorn. “A technician. Sorry. I had the idea you needed a flyer.”
“It’s expensive,” Somps said pitifully. “Dr. Hillis owns it. He financed it.”
“I see,” Darrow said. “A question of money.” He rolled up his sleeves. “Well, if anyone needs me, I’ll be on the Throne of Adonis. Or better yet, aloft.” He left.
We watched him swagger off. “Perhaps you should give him a shot,” I advised Somps. “We’ve flown together, and he really is quite good.”
Somps flushed dully. On some level, I believe he suspected that he had been had. “It’s not one of your glamor toys,” he mumbled bitterly. “Not yet, anyway. It’s my experiment and I’m doing aeronautic science. I’m not an entertainer and I’m not doing sideshow stunts for your benefit, Mr. de Kooning.”
I stared at him. “No need to snap,” I said cooly. “I sympathize completely. I know things would be different if you were your own man.” I touched my hat. “Ladies, good day.”
I rejoined Darrow, out of sight, down the trail. “You said you could talk him into it,” Darrow said.
I shrugged. “It was worth a try. He was weakening for a moment there. I didn’t think he’d be such a stick-in-the-mud.”
“Well, now we do things my way,” Darrow said. “We have to steal it.” He stripped off his ward, set it on top of a handy sandstone ledge, and whacked it with a fist-sized rock. The ward whined and its screen flared into static. “I think my ward broke,” Darrow observed. “Take it in for me and plug me out of the house system, won’t you? I wouldn’t want anyone to try locating me with my broken ward. That would be rude.”
“I still advise against stealing it,” I said. “We’ve made both our rivals look like idiots. There’s no need for high drama.”
“Don’t be petty, Manfred,” Darrow said. “High drama is the only way to live!”
I ask you, my dear MacLuhan—who could resist a gesture like that?
That afternoon crawled by. As the celebration started in earnest, wine was served. I was nervous, so I had a glass. But after a few sips I regretted it and set it aside. Alcohol is such a sledgehammer drug. And to think that people used to drink it by the barrel and case!
Dusk arrived. There was still no sign of Darrow, though I kept checking the skies. As preparations for the outdoor banquet neared completion, corporate helicopters began arriving, disgorging their cargos of aging bigwigs. This was, after all, a company affair; and whole hordes of retirees and cybernetic pioneers were arriving to pay tribute to Hillis.
Since they lacked the relaxed politesse of us moderns, their idea of a tribute was harried and brief. They would pack down their plates of scorched meat, swill far too much hard liquor, and listen to speeches … then they would check their pacemakers and leave.
A ghastly air of stuffiness descended over the hogan and its surroundings. Leona’s contingent of beautiful people was soon outnumbered; pressed on all sides, they flocked together like birds surrounded by stegosaurs.
After a brief delay, a retrospective tribute to Dr. Hillis flashed onto the rock-garden’s screen. We watched it politely. There were the familiar scenes, part of the folklore of our century. Young Hillis at MIT, poring over the work of Marvin Minsky and the cognitive psychologists. Hillis at Tsukuba Science City, becoming the heart and soul of the Sixth Generation Project. Hillis, the Man with a Mission, incorporating in Singapore and turning silicon to gold with a touch.
And then all that cornucopia of riches that came with making intelligence into a utility. It’s so easy to forget, MacLuhan, that there was once a time when the ability to reason was not something that comes through wires just like electricity. When “factory” meant a place where the “blue-collar” caste went to work!
Of course Hillis was only one of a mighty host of pioneers. But as the Nobel Prize winner and the author of Structured Intelligent Multiple Processing he has always been a figurehead for the industry. No, more than that; a figurehead for the age itself. There was a time, before he turned his back on the modern world, when people spoke the name Hillis in the same breath with Edison, Watt, and Marconi.
It was not at all a bad film, of its sort. It didn’t tell the whole truth, of course; it was conspicuously quiet about Hillis’ regrettable involvement in politics during the ’40s, the EEC bribery scandal, and that bizarre episode at the Tyuratam Launch Center. But one can read about those things anywhere. Actually, I confess that I felt the loss of those glory days, which we now see, in hindsight, as the last sunset glow of the Western analytic method. Those lost battalions of scientists, technicians, engineers!
Of course, to the modern temperament, this lopsided emphasis on rational thought seems stifli
ng. Admittedly, machine intelligence has its limits; it’s not capable of those human bursts of insight that once advanced scientific knowledge by leaps and bounds. The march of science is now the methodical crawling of robots.
But who misses it? We finally have a stable, global society, that accommodates man’s higher feelings. A world of plenty, peace, and leisure, where the beautiful and the sublime reign supreme. If the film caused me a qualm, it was a credit to our modern mastery of propaganda and public relations. Soft, intuitive arts, maybe; the dark yin to the bright yang of the scientific method. But powerful arts, and, like it or not, the ones that shape our modern age.
We had advanced from soup to fish when I caught my first glimpse of Darrow. The Dragonfly emerged from the depths of the canyon in a brief frenzied arc, its four wings thrashing in the twilit air. Strangely, my first impression was not of a struggling pilot but of a poisoned bug. The thing vanished almost at once.
I must have turned pale, for I noticed Mari Kuniyoshi watching me strangely. But I held my peace.
Crocodile #2 took the podium. This gentleman was another artifact of the vanished age. He’d been some kind of military bigwig, a “pentagon chief of staff” I think they called him. Now he was Hillis Industries’ “Chief of Security,” as if they needed one in this day and age. It was clear that he’d been drinking heavily. He gave a long, lachrymose introduction to Hillis, droning on and on about “air force” this and “space launch” that, and Hillis’s contribution to the “defense industry.” I noticed then that Fred Solokov, resplendent in tie and tails, began to look noticeably offended. And who could blame him?
Hillis at last took the podium, standing erect with the help of a cane. He was applauded loudly; we were overjoyed to see Crocodile #2 go. It isn’t often that you see someone with the bad taste to mention atomic weapons in public. As if sensing the scotched nerves of our Soviet friend, Hillis departed from his prepared speech and began rambling about his “latest project.”
The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Fourth Annual Collection Page 45