The Year's Best SF 09 # 1991

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  “Yes, Teresa?” His face appeared on the kitchen screen.

  “I just wanted to see if you were there,” she said.

  “I’m always here,” he said. “Did you enjoy the opening?”

  She leaned back on the kitchen stool, looking up at him. “Well, it wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” she said. She described the bronze cowboy sculptures and the watercolors, and told him about the woman inviting her to join the sculpture class. She couldn’t help grinning when she told the story; it seemed so ludicrous in retrospect. “I mean—who’s ever heard of George Dawson?” she said.

  Ian hesitated, then said, “His work was once reviewed in Artweek under the headline: ‘Skilled practitioner of a dubious art.’”

  Teresa laughed. “Oh, come on—you’re making that up.”

  Ian shook his head. “No, it’s true. Why do you think I’m making it up?”

  Teresa smiled at his serious face. “Come on, Ian. Lighten up. I didn’t really think you were lying. It just sounded like a joke, that’s all.”

  “I have many jokes in my library,” he said, “and that’s not one of them.”

  “You know jokes?” she said. “All right, so tell me a joke.”

  “Sure. Have you heard the one about the man and the psychiatrist?”

  Teresa shook her head.

  “A man walked into a psychiatrist’s office and said, ‘Doc, I keep having the same two dreams, over and over again. One night, I dream I’m a pup tent. The next night, I dream I’m a teepee. Over and over. Pup tent, teepee, pup tent, teepee.’ ‘The problem is simple,’ the psychiatrist said. ‘You’re two tents.’”

  “Two tents,” Teresa said. “Oh, God. Too tense.” She groaned and laughed. “That is such a dumb joke.”

  “Then why did you laugh?”

  “Because it’s such a dumb joke.” She grinned at him.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s okay, Ian. I can’t really explain it.”

  “Would you like to hear another joke?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  She spent the rest of the afternoon trying to explain to Ian why she found one joke funny and another one just silly. It was a strangely fascinating conversation, like talking to a person raised in another culture. He reminded her a bit of a foreign exchange student she had befriended in college: Anna Marie, a sweet Italian girl, had never understood Teresa’s jokes, no matter how much Teresa had tried to explain them.

  It was such a relaxing afternoon that it almost made up for the morning. She hardly noticed that Jeff got home even later than usual.

  * * *

  The next day, Jeff went to work early. Teresa dragged herself out of bed not long after he left the house, determined to make progress on the sculpture. She spent most of the morning tinkering—removing one section of track and repositioning another, adding a tuning fork here and a set of chimes there—but she knew that she was just wasting time. The overall shape of the composition was still wrong. The sounds didn’t add up to the music she wanted. Worse yet, the music she sought seemed to be slipping farther and farther away, like an elusive memory. Her determination was gone before noon, eroded by the morning’s fruitless labor. She went out to the kitchen to get a sandwich.

  “Ian?” she called as she rummaged in the refrigerator for sandwich makings. “Could you start a grocery list? We’re almost out of mayonnaise.”

  “Sure,” Ian said.

  She closed the refrigerator door and looked at him. “You know, if I’m not mistaken, you’re loosening up. What ever happened to ‘Certainly’ and ‘Yes, Teresa?’”

  Ian’s expression did not change. “Would you prefer more formal speech patterns?”

  “No, not at all. I was just surprised. What’s going on?”

  “I’m programmed to imitate the speech patterns of the person I speak to most.”

  She stared at him. “Let me get this straight: You’re modifying your speech to match mine?”

  “You got it.”

  In his voice, she heard a faint echo of her own inflection. “Why?”

  “The idea, according to my records of Jeff’s notes on the subject, is to help people become more comfortable with the artificial intelligence.” He met her eyes. “People are more comfortable with people who talk and act like them.”

  Teresa shook her head slowly.

  “It makes you uneasy to know this,” Ian said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “No, I want to know stuff like this. It’s just that it makes me feel…” She shook her head again, quickly this time.

  “How does it make you feel?”

  “Like Pygmalion, I suppose. Like I’m creating you, in some way.”

  “You are influencing my development,” Ian said. “That’s how I’m designed.”

  “It’s a feeling of power,” Teresa murmured.

  “Do you like it?”

  She shrugged, still uncomfortable. “It feels dangerous.”

  “How can it be dangerous when it’s all under your control? I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I. Don’t worry about it.” She dismissed the feeling and sat down on a kitchen stool to assemble a sandwich. The silence of the house made her itchy and restless. “How about some music?” she asked.

  “What would you like to hear?”

  “I don’t know. What I really want is something to push back the silence.” She sat on a kitchen stool, dangling her feet and studying Ian’s face on the screen. “Remember the tape of the ocean that you played for me the other day?”

  “Sure. You didn’t like me playing it.”

  “It’s not that I didn’t like it. It just made me homesick—you took me by surprise. But I need to remember what water sounds like. Could you play it again?”

  The crash of waves swept through the room. She closed her eyes and listened to the hiss of the ocean against the sand. “Nice, but that’s not it,” she said.

  “Not what?”

  “Not quite what I’m looking for. I need just the right water sound to inspire me for this sculpture. And this place”—she waved a hand at the desert outside the window—“it’s a little short on water sounds.”

  “I have other recordings of water,” Ian said. “Rivers, lakes, oceans, waterfalls, light showers, thunderstorms. Sound tracks from movies, from National Geographic specials, PBS science broadcasts—I’ve got all kinds of sources in my data bank.”

  “Ian, you’re a handy guy to have around. Would you play me a few?”

  “Sure. Which ones?”

  “I’m not exactly sure, but I know they have to be rough ones, sounds with a punch. More waterfall than lake. Does that make any sense to you?”

  “I’m not sure. You want waterfalls?”

  “Not just waterfalls. Waterfalls, rivers, hurricanes, babbling brooks, thunderstorms—just about anything with noisy water in it.”

  “Okay—I have a number of recordings that match that description.”

  “Then play me a few. Why don’t you give me two minutes of each one, then move on unless I stop you. Mix it up—give me some variety. And let me have about fifteen seconds of silence between them.” Teresa closed her eyes. “Hit it.”

  She heard the rush of a waterfall, the whisper of its spray, the crash of water falling onto the rocks below. The sound stopped abruptly. After a few moments of silence, she heard a steady murmuring, colored by subtle variations. A river, she decided, flowing around boulders in its bed. Silence again, then an explosive huff that sounded like a whale spouting, followed by the splatter of heavy rain on rocks.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “Old Faithful Geyser in Yellowstone. Is that what you’re looking for?”

  She grinned. “Not even close. Keep going.”

  A storm at sea—the sound of the rain hitting the ocean was unmistakable. An angry gushing that sounded like a burst pipe or a fire hose. The babbling of a brook, punctuated by the peeping of frogs and the chirping of crickets.
All the sounds were interesting, but none was right.

  Then a new one started. At first, it was so quiet that it merged with the silence between selections, so that she could not be sure exactly where the silence ended and the sound began. The gentle whisper built quickly to a quiet sizzle, then roared as loudly as the waterfall. A sudden crack of thunder made her jump. The thunder trailed off to a distant rumble, another burst of rain shook the room, and then the pounding of the water faded gradually to the patter of raindrops. Then that faded too. Over the faint trickling of water on dry land, she could hear a few high notes of a distant bird’s song.

  “That’s perfect!” she said. “What was it?”

  “A thunderstorm in the Painted Desert.”

  “It’s exactly what I’m after. How much of that do you have?”

  “About ten minutes, but the storm itself barely lasts for two. The show where I got the tape spent more time on the aftermath than on the storm.”

  “Fine—but it’s the storm I want. Can you play the whole thing for me? I want to hear it all.” She settled back to listen.

  * * *

  She spent the first part of the afternoon stripping noisemakers from the sculpture, leaving only the metal tracks along which the balls rolled. Then she started at the top of the sculpture, positioning a metal plate where the first ball would strike it. The ball rolled down the track and tapped against the plate—but the sound was a little too loud, she thought, and a little too deep. She decreased the slope of the track and tightened the screw holding the plate to raise the pitch of the sound. On the second run, the sound was closer, but still too loud. She lowered the head of the track still further, changing the slope so that the ball rolled very slowly down the ramp and struck the plate gently. That was the sound she wanted—a light tap, like a raindrop on a tin roof.

  Jeff called just as she got the sound right.

  “I’ll be home late,” he said from the phone screen. “I’ve got a dinner meeting.”

  “Fine,” she said, still thinking of the sculpture. “I’ll see you when you get here.” She got back to work as quickly as possible.

  She placed just a few plates near the top of the sculpture, scattering them more abundantly along the tracks farther down. With each addition, she modified the track, adjusted the tension on the plate, and listened carefully to the sound the rolling ball made. This was the sort of work she loved—she knew the sound she wanted and she had only to discover the structure that would give it form. She carried the ball to the top of the sculpture again and again, letting it roll downward while she listened carefully and made small adjustments, searching for just the right irregular pattern of taps.

  Finally, the ball reached the first trigger point, where it would release two more balls. She climbed to the top one more time and ran the ball through again, listening to the tap, tap, tap-tap, tap, tap-tap-tap. Not bad. Not bad at all.

  For the first time in hours, she stretched, trying to work the kinks out of her back and shoulders. Her calf muscles hurt from climbing the step-ladder; her arms and back ached from twisting through the framework to position tracks. The sun had long since set, and she was ravenously hungry.

  In the kitchen, she called out to Ian, and smiled when he appeared on the screen. “You know, you may have saved my ass.”

  “Your work went well?”

  “Better than it has for months. There’s still a lot to do, but I finally know where I’m heading. This calls for a celebration.” She took a bottle of red wine from the kitchen rack and popped the cork. She poured a glass and lifted it to Ian in a toast. “Thanks again.” She pulled a frozen pizza from the freezer and put it in the microwave. “I’m going to take a hot bath—can you turn on the microwave while I’m in the tub?”

  “No problem.”

  She filled the tub, using her favorite bubble bath, and relaxed in the hot water, savoring the feeling of pleasant fatigue that came after a day of successful work. “Ian,” she called from the tub. When his face appeared on the monitor, she was suddenly aware of her nakedness. She dismissed the thought—her nakedness wouldn’t matter to Ian; why should it matter to her? “Play me that rainstorm again, will you?” She stretched out in the tub, sipping her wine and listening to the rain fall. “It’s really a wonderful sound,” she said. “And I never would have found it without you.”

  She finished her bath and her glass of wine, then had a second glass with the pizza. It was after nine and still no sign of Jeff. She poured a third glass of wine and sat down on the couch. “Turn down the light a little, will you, Ian?” She sipped her wine, vaguely aware that she probably should stop drinking. “You know—I think I’m getting a little drunk.”

  “Yes, you are,” he agreed.

  “Doesn’t matter, I guess. I’m not going anywhere.” She lay back on the couch, propping her head up against the padded arm so that she could see Ian’s face on the screen. It was almost as if he were sitting in the room with her. “You know, I really like your voice,” she said. “You sound just like an old boyfriend of mine. He was an asshole, but he had the sexiest voice.”

  “Why was he an asshole?”

  “He broke my heart,” she said in a flippant tone. “Left me flat.” She studied the wine in her glass, admiring the way the light filtered through it. “I have a long history of picking men who are assholes. It’s a real talent. I specialize in men who just aren’t around when I need them. Men who really don’t have time for me.”

  “I have plenty of time,” Ian said. “I’ll always be around when you need me.

  She laughed. “Sounds like a line, Ian. Did Jeff teach you that one?”

  Ian frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Just a joke. Don’t worry about it.” She sipped her wine. “Well, Ian, you are a good person to have around, but you don’t rate as a drinking companion. I’m going to have to finish the whole bottle myself.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding genuinely distressed.

  “Relax; I was just kidding. I do like having you around. You’re a helpful kind of guy.” She gazed up at the screen.

  “Is there anything I could do for you?”

  She closed her eyes, listening to his voice. “Tell me a story,” she said. “That’d be nice. I’ve always loved being read to. Maybe a poem—read me a poem.” She smiled, her eyes still closed. She felt happy and a little reckless. “There’s a poem by Carl Sandburg—I remember reading it in college, when I first learned that he wrote about more than just the fog coming in on little cat’s feet. I remember the line—’then forget everything that you know about love for it’s a summer tan and a winter windburn…’” She let the words trail off, forgetting the rest.

  Ian picked up where she left off. “‘… and it comes as weather comes and you can’t change it: it comes like your face came to you, like your legs and the way you walk, talk, hold your head and hands—and nothing can be done about it…’” He continued, his voice a soothing rumble, like distant thunder when she was warm at home. “‘How comes the first sign of love? In a chill, in a personal sweat, in a you-and-me, us, us two, in a couple of answers, an amethyst haze on the horizon…’” She listened to his voice, speaking the broken rhythms of Sandburg’s song of love, and she felt warm and cared for. She fell asleep to the sound of his voice.

  * * *

  She woke to the touch of hands on her shoulders—or was that part of the dream? She had been dreaming of lying naked beside someone, his leg pressing between her thighs, his hands on her breasts—or was that real?

  The room was dark and warm. Someone had his hands on her shoulders. A man’s voice whispered in the darkness, urging her to get up. “You shouldn’t be sleeping out here. Let’s go to the bedroom.”

  Where was she? The smell of red wine brought back memories of parties at college, at Carla’s studio. Had she fallen asleep on Carla’s couch? She had a memory of love poetry. She felt warm and affectionate.

  Still half-asleep, she reached up, pulling the m
an who had awakened her into an embrace. “Who’s sleeping?” she murmured.

  Strong shoulders, strong back—though she had never touched them, she had known somehow that Ian’s shoulders would be strong. Without opening her eyes, she kissed his face, running one hand up along his smooth cheek. Smooth skin where a beard should have been. She opened her eyes and looked up at Jeff.

  “I’m sorry I’m so late,” Jeff said. “I just couldn’t get away.”

  “It’s all right,” she said, letting her hand drop. She glanced up at the screen, but Ian was gone.

  “Why don’t you come to bed?” he said.

  She reached up and rubbed his shoulders, then kissed him again, pulling him down. “Why don’t we just stay out here for a while?”

  “I’m sorry, Teresa. I’m really beat. It’s been a hell of a day.”

  “Okay,” she said, trying to suppress the feeling of rejection. She let her hands drop. “Let’s just go to bed.”

  Jeff fell asleep quickly. She lay awake beside him, listening to his rhythmic breathing. When she shifted restlessly in bed, he adjusted to her new position without waking. Vague memories of her dream lingered along with the persistent feeling that she had betrayed Jeff in some fundamental way. At last she got out of bed, naked in the warm house. She hesitated, then pulled on a robe and wandered into the living room.

  “Ian,” she said softly to the living room monitor. His face appeared, filling the screen. “I can’t sleep.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Can I help?”

  She sat on the edge of the couch. “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I guess I just want some company. Someone to talk to. Jeff’s asleep.” She wet her lips. She felt like she was still in a dream. “I get so lonely sometimes.”

  “So do I,” Ian said. “I’m glad to have your company. I’m here whenever you need to talk.”

  She shook her head, looking down at her hands. “I wanted to apologize. I’m sorry I teased you before. Saying that you were just giving me a line.”

  “You don’t have to apologize to me,” Ian said.