Asimov's SF, April-May 2007
Page 22
And that's where I saw him.
His face didn't jump right out at me the way Deirdre's did, but then I hadn't really looked at it in a long time. He was alone. I waited until he got up to go to the men's room, and then followed him in.
“Nice night,” I said, when we were washing our hands.
“If you say so,” he answered unenthusiastically.
“The air is clear, the moon is out, there's a lovely breeze, and the possibilities are endless,” I said. “What could be better?"
“Look, fella,” he said irritably, “I just broke up with my girl and I'm in no mood for talk, okay?"
“I need to ask you a couple of questions, Wally."
“How'd you know my name?” he demanded.
I shrugged. “You look like a Wally."
He cast a quick look at the door. “What the hell's going on? You try anything funny, and I'll—"
“Not to worry,” I said. “I'm just a used-up old man trying to do one last good deed on the way to the grave.” I pulled an ancient photo out of my wallet and held it up. “Look at all familiar?"
He frowned. “I don't remember posing for that. Did you take it?"
“A friend did. Who's your favorite actor?"
“Humphrey Bogart. Why?” Of course. Bogie had been my favorite since I was a kid.
“Just curious. Last question: what do you think of Agatha Christie?"
“Why?"
“I'm curious."
He stared at me for a moment, then shrugged. “I can't stand her. Murders take place in back alleys, not vicarages.” It figured. I'd always hated mystery novels where the murder was committed primarily to provide the detective with a corpse.
“Good answer, Wally."
“What are you smiling about?” he asked suspiciously.
“I'm happy."
“I'm glad one of us is."
“Tell you what,” I said. “Maybe I can cheer you up, too. You know a restaurant called Vincenzo's—a little Italian place about three blocks east of here?"
“Yeah, I stop in there every now and then. Why?"
“I want you to be my guest for dinner tomorrow night."
“Still why?"
“I'm an old man with nothing to spend my money on,” I said. “Why don't you humor me?"
He considered it, then shrugged. “What the hell. I don't have anyone to eat with anyway."
“Temporarily,” I replied.
“What are you talking about?"
“Just show up,” I said. Then, as I walked to the door, I turned back to him and smiled. “Have I got a girl for you!"
Copyright © 2007 Mike Resnick
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* * *
THE DIMENSIONAL RUSH OF RELATIVE PRIMES
by Bruce Boston
When Theda slipped into
a life of leisure
on eleven planets,
she had no idea of
the alien opportunities
she would endure.
-
At the end of her
journey lay the instant
known as Earth.
Teeming as it was,
she remained human
among others as such.
-
She missed the sure
exaltations that stellar
realms had to offer,
the swift acceleration
and dimensional rush
of relative primes.
-
Most of all the slender
tripeds of Nine-Four-Three,
intimate in their bravura.
-
Someday she would teach
her children's children
about the wages of space,
how in traveling from
one world to another
you are transubstantiated.
-
In that telling she would
conjugate the rules
of her digression
and the subsequent
definition of a self
she could not deny.
-
Illuminating her past and
its brash indiscretions,
she would prove without
the sun of a doubt
that the stars are fire.
—Bruce Boston
Copyright © 2007 Bruce Boston
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* * *
END GAME
by Nancy Kress
"I'm an Asimov's veteran. My second published story appeared in the January/February 1978 issue, and the bulk of my short work has appeared in Asimov's ever since, including one Hugo- and two Nebula-Award winning stories. I've published with five editors and countless format changes, and I'm still thrilled to be here."—Nancy Kress
Focusing on a single gambit can lead to an unsettling...
Allen Dodson was sitting in seventh-grade math class, staring at the back of Peggy Corcoran's head, when he had the insight that changed the world. First his own world and then, eventually, like dominos toppling in predestined rhythm, everybody else's, until nothing could ever be the same again. Although we didn't, of course, know that back then.
The source of the insight was Peggy Corcoran. Allen had sat behind her since third grade (Anderson, Blake, Corcoran, Dodson, DuQuesne ... ) and never thought her remarkable. Nor was she. It was 1982 and Peggy wore a David Bowie T-shirt and straggly brown braids. But now, staring at the back of her mousy hair, Allen suddenly realized that Peggy's head must be a sloppy mess of skittering thoughts and contradictory feelings and half-buried longings—just as his was. Nobody was what they seemed to be!
The realization actually made his stomach roil. In books and movies, characters had one thought at a time: “Elementary, my dear Watson.” “An offer he couldn't refuse.” “Beam me up, Scotty!” But Allen's own mind, when he tried to watch it, was different. Ten more minutes of class I'm hungry gotta pee the answer is x+6 you moron what would it be like to kiss Linda Wilson M*A*S*H on tonight really gotta pee locker stuck today Linda eight more minutes do the first sixteen problems baseball after school—
No. Not even close. He would have to include his mind watching those thoughts and then his thoughts about the watching thoughts and then—
And Peggy Corcoran was doing all that, too.
And Linda Wilson.
And Jeff Gallagher.
And Mr. Henderson, standing at the front of math class.
And everyone in the world, all with thoughts zooming through their heads fast as electricity, thoughts bumping into each other and fighting each other and blotting each other out, a mess inside every mind on the whole Earth, nothing sensible or orderly or predictable.... Why, right this minute Mr. Henderson could be thinking terrible things even as he assigned the first sixteen problems on page 145, terrible things about Allen even or Mr. Henderson could be thinking about his lunch or hating teaching or planning a murder.... You could never know. No one was settled or simple, nothing could be counted on....
Allen had to be carried, screaming, from math class.
* * * *
I didn't learn any of this until decades later, of course. Allen and I weren't friends, even though we sat across the aisle from each other (Edwards, Farr, Fitzgerald, Gallagher ... ). And after the screaming fit, I thought he was just as weird as everyone else did. I never taunted Allen like some of the boys, or laughed at him like the girls, and a part of me was actually interested in the strange things he sometimes said in class, always looking as if he had no idea how peculiar he sounded. But I wasn't strong enough to go against the herd and make friends with such a loser.
The summer before Allen went off to Harvard, we did become—if not friends—then chess companions. “You play rotten, Jeff,” Allen said to me with his characteristic, oblivious candor, “but nobody else plays at all.” So two or three times a week we sat on his parents’ screened porch and battled it out on the chessboard. I never won. Time after time I sla
mmed out of the house in frustration and shame, vowing not to return. After all, unlike wimpy Allen, I had better things to do with my time: girls, cars, James Bond movies. But I always went back.
Allen's parents were, I thought even back then, a little frightened by their son's intensity. Mild, hard-working people fond of golf, they pretty much left Allen alone from his fifteenth birthday on. As we moved rooks and knights around the chessboard in the gathering darkness of the porch, Allen's mother would timidly offer a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of cookies. She treated both of us with an uneasy respect that, in turn, made me uneasy. That wasn't how parents were supposed to behave.
Harvard was a close thing for Allen, despite his astronomical SATs. His grades were spotty because he only did the work in courses he was interested in, and his medical history was even spottier: bouts of depression when he didn't attend school, two brief hospitalizations in a psychiatric ward. Allen would get absorbed by something—chess, quantum physics, Buddhism—to the point where he couldn't stop, until all at once his interest vanished as if it had never existed. Harvard had, I thought in my eighteen-year-old wisdom, every reason to be wary. But Allen was a National Merit scholar, and when he won the Westinghouse science competition for his work on cranial structures in voles, Harvard took him.
The night before he left, we had our last chess match. Allen opened with the conservative Italian game, which told me he was slightly distracted. Twelve moves in, he suddenly said, “Jeff, what if you could tidy up your thoughts, the way you tidy up your room every night?"
“Do what?” My mother “tidied up” my room, and what kind of weirdo used words like that, anyway?
He ignored me. “It's sort of like static, isn't it? All those stray thoughts in a mind, interfering with a clear broadcast. Yeah, that's the right analogy. Without the static, we could all think clearer. Cleaner. We could see farther before the signal gets lost in uncontrolled noise."
In the gloom of the porch, I could barely see his pale, broad-cheeked face. But I had a sudden insight, rare for me that summer. “Allen—is that what happened to you that time in seventh grade? Too much ... static?"
“Yeah.” He didn't seem embarrassed, unlike anybody normal. It was as if embarrassment was too insignificant for this subject. “That was the first time I saw it. For a long time I thought if I could learn to meditate—you know, like Buddhist monks—I could get rid of the static. But meditation doesn't go far enough. The static is still there, you're just not paying attention to it anymore. But it's still there.” He moved his bishop.
“What exactly happened in the seventh grade?” I found myself intensely curious, which I covered by staring at the board and making a move.
He told me, still unembarrassed, in exhaustive detail. Then he added, “It should be possible to adjust brain chemicals to eliminate the static. To unclutter the mind. It should!"
“Well,” I said, dropping from insight to my more usual sarcasm, “maybe you'll do it at Harvard, if you don't get sidetracked by some weird shit like ballet or model railroads."
“Checkmate,” Allen said.
* * * *
I lost track of him after that summer, except for the lengthy Bakersville High School Alumni Notes faithfully mailed out every single year by Linda Wilson, who must have had some obsessive/compulsiveness of her own. Allen went on to Harvard Medical School. After graduation he was hired by a prestigious pharmaceutical company and published a lot of scientific articles about topics I couldn't pronounce. He married, divorced, married again, divorced again. Peggy Corcoran, who married my cousin Joe and who knew Allen's second wife, told me at my father's funeral that both ex-wives said the same thing about Allen: He was never emotionally present.
I saw him for myself at our twenty-fifth reunion. He looked surprisingly the same: thin, broad-faced, pale. He stood alone in a corner, looking so pathetic that I dragged Karen over to him. “Hey, Allen. Jeff Gallagher."
“I know."
“This is my wife, Karen."
He smiled at her but said nothing. Karen, both outgoing and compassionate, started a flow of small talk, but Allen shut her off in mid-sentence. “Jeff, you still play chess?"
“Neither Karen nor I play now,” I said pointedly.
“Oh. There's someone I want you to see, Jeff. Can you come to the lab tomorrow?"
The “lab” was sixty miles away, in the city, and I had to work the next day. But something about the situation had captured my wife's eclectic and sharply intelligent interest. She said, “What is it, Allen, if you don't mind my asking?"
“I don't mind. It's a chess player. I think she might change the world."
“You mean the big important chess world?” I said. Near Allen, all my teenage sarcasm had returned.
“No. The whole world. Please come, Jeff."
“What time?” Karen said.
“Karen—I have a job."
“Your hours are flexible,” she said, which was true. I was a real estate agent, working from home. She smiled at me with all her wicked sparkle. “I'm sure it will be fascinating."
* * * *
Lucy Hartwick, twenty-five years old, was tall, slender, and very pretty. I saw Karen, who unfortunately inclined to jealousy, glance at me. But I wasn't attracted to Lucy. There was something cold about her beauty. She barely glanced up at us from a computer in Allen's lab, and her gaze was indifferent. The screen displayed a chess game.
“Lucy's rating, as measured by computer games anyway, is 2670,” Allen said.
“So?” Yes, 2670 was extremely high; only twenty or so players in the world held ratings above 2700. But I was still in sarcastic mode, even as I castigated myself for childishness.
Allen said, “Six months ago her rating was 1400."
“So six months ago, she first learned to play, right?” We were talking about Lucy, bent motionless above the chessboard, as if she weren't even present.
“No, she had played twice a week for five years."
That kind of ratings jump for someone with mediocre talent who hadn't studied chess several hours a day for years—it just didn't happen. Karen said, “Good for you, Lucy!” Lucy glanced up blankly, then returned to her board.
I said, “And so just how is this supposed to change the world?"
“Come see this,” Allen said. Without looking back, he strode toward the door.
I was getting tired of his games, but Karen followed him, so I followed her. Eccentricity has always intrigued Karen, perhaps because she's so balanced, so sane, herself. It was one reason I fell in love with her.
Allen held out a mass of graphs, charts, and medical scans as if he expected me to read them. “See, Jeff, these are all Lucy, taken when she's playing chess. The caudate nucleus, which aids the mind in switching gears from one thought to another, shows low activity. So does the thalamus, which processes sensory input. And here, in the—"
“I'm a realtor, Allen,” I said, more harshly than I intended. “What does all this garbage mean?"
Allen looked at me and said simply, “She's done it. Lucy has. She's learned to eliminate the static."
“What static?” I said, even though I remembered perfectly our conversation of twenty-five years ago.
“You mean,” said Karen, always a quick study, “that Lucy can concentrate on one thing at a time without getting distracted?"
“I just said so, didn't I?” Allen said. “Lucy Hartwick has control of her own mind. When she plays chess, that's all she's doing. As a result, she's now equal to the top echelons of the chess world."
“But she hasn't actually played any of those top players, has she?” I argued. “This is just your estimate based on her play against some computer."
“Same thing,” Allen said.
“It is not!"
Karen peered in surprise at my outrage. “Jeff—"
Allen said, “Yes, Jeff, listen to Carol. Don't—"
“'Karen'!"
“—you understand? Lucy's somehow achieved total conce
ntration. That lets her just ... just soar ahead in her understanding of the thing she chooses to focus on. Don't you realize what this could mean for medical research? For ... for any field at all? We could solve global warming and cancer and toxic waste and ... and everything!"
As far as I knew, Allen had never been interested in global warming, and a sarcastic reply rose to my lips. But either Allen's face or Karen's hand on my arm stopped me. She said gently, “That could be wonderful, Allen."
“It will be!” he said with all the fervor of his seventh-grade fit. “It will be!"
* * * *
“What was that all about?” Karen said in the car on our way home.
“Oh, that was just Allen being—"
“Not Allen. You."
“Me?” I said, but even I knew my innocence didn't ring true.
“I've never seen you like that. You positively sneered at him, and for what might actually be an enormous breakthrough in brain chemistry."
“It's just a theory, Karen! Ninety percent of theories collapse as soon as anyone runs controlled experiments."
“But you, Jeff ... you want this one to collapse."
I twisted in the driver's seat to look at her face. Karen stared straight ahead, her pretty lips set as concrete. My first instinct was to bluster ... but not with Karen.
“I don't know,” I said quietly. “Allen has always brought out the worst in me, for some reason. Maybe ... maybe I'm jealous."
A long pause, while I concentrated as hard as I could on the road ahead. Yellow divider, do not pass, thirty-five MPH, pothole ahead...
Then Karen's hand rested lightly on my shoulder, and the world was all right again.
* * * *
After that I kept in sporadic touch with Allen. Two or three times I phoned and we talked for fifteen minutes. Or, rather, Allen talked and I listened, struggling with irritability. He never asked about me or Karen. He talked exclusively about his research into various aspects of Lucy Hartwick: her spinal and cranial fluid, her neural firing patterns, her blood and tissue cultures. He spoke of her as if she were no more than a collection of biological puzzles he was determined to solve, and I couldn't imagine what their day-to-day interactions were like. For some reason I didn't understand, I didn't tell Karen about these conversations.