“I’m thinking of getting a new job,” she said. “It’ll mean retraining, but I’m not a machine, am I? I can’t keep on doing the same old thing forever. My work isn’t like tailoring, which is constantly changing...the problem with digitizing images is that when you’ve reduced everything to ones and zeros there really isn’t much further you can go, and splicing real-to-synth is just cut-and-stitch, cut-and-stitch.”
It’s not as bad as that, Miss Patchwork, I thought—but all I said was: “That’s not a bad idea. Change your life along with your skin and start from scratch. Give yourself the chance to build a coherent whole and it’ll all work out. Trust yourself a little. Give your new skin a chance to get comfortable and maybe you’ll be comfortable inside it.”
I started the hanging. That was always the easy part with Sally. She was strangely unselfconscious about standing naked with her head back and her arms outstretched; she never flinched or shrugged the way some people do.
“It’s really not very nice to keep casting them off, is it?” she said, murmuring through tightened lips. “I mean, the ones I bring back have all been brought back before, haven’t they? I suppose, with me being so small and thin, they don’t get any more chances. They die, don’t they? And it’s not their fault, is it? It’s my fault, for being so bloody difficult.”
“They don’t die, Sally,” I said, soothingly. “They’re not individuals. The cells are immortal—they simply get recycled into new skins. Everything in the world gets recycled, molecule by molecule and atom by atom. The air we breathe has been breathed since time immemorial by all the human beings who ever set foot upon the earth. The air doesn’t care who breathes it in and who breathes it out, and the cells that make up our skins just get on with the job, no matter how they’re recombined. There’s no need to feel bad about bringing your skin back to the tailor’s—no need at all.”
“You’re very kind,” she said. “I don’t deserve it, but I’m very grateful. You’re the best man I know—far better than Ritchie Halliday, no matter how he made me feel.”
“I’m just a tailor,” I told her. “Fitting people into skins is my job. This one will be just right. Take my word for it.”
* * * *
Sally’s new skin suited her. All her skins did, no matter how uncomfortable she felt inside them. I suppose that’s a tribute to my cutting and seaming skills—all the more so because it was a recycling job—but it’s also testimony to the fact that there was something precious in her, whose full value she didn’t yet know. Maybe I’m sentimental, but my judgment in such matters has always been sound. I could tell that Sally was authentically beautiful by the way the colors glowed; in time, I felt sure, she’d come to know it too.
I’m profoundly glad that the olden days are long gone; it must have been a terrible thing to have to rely on clothes to create the images by means of which we display ourselves to the world at large. Skins are so much better in every conceivable way, and they’re getting better all the time. It isn’t their lack of technological sophistication which makes so many people uncomfortable within them; it’s our lack of emotional sophistication that’s to blame—but I’m not one of those people who think that we’re unready for the authentic immortality that rejuve technology will very soon deliver to those who can afford it. I figure that true sanity will be easy enough to cultivate, once we have all the time we need to do the job.
I’m confident that future generations will be more easily able to reap the full reward of the tailor’s art, and I reckon that it mightn’t be such a bad thing if a few of my mediocre competitors were to go bankrupt. Of course, it’s easy for me to say that; I’m already rich, and I have absolute faith in my own ability.
I expect to hear a hundred more stories like Ritchie’s and Sally’s before I move on to some other kind of art-work, but there’ll come a time when tales of that pathetic kind will be as obsolete as birth and death. One day, everybody will be able to look into a mirror and say “That’s really me,” and know that it’s true—and always will be.
This time around I gave Sally a skin that had been sloughed by one of the actresses whose tapes she cut and pasted and whose images she patiently repaired with the aid of a fertile stream of dots and dashes. There was no element of strategy in the choice, because I knew full well that it really didn’t matter at all where a skin had been before I passed it on to a new owner.
I knew that the answer to Sally’s problem, like the answer to Ritchie’s, was simply a matter of trial and error, and of having faith in the things that are worthy of our faith. If we all keep going long enough, we’ll hit the winning combinations in the end. That’s the nature of human evolution—and, indeed, of all evolution.
Ritchie Halliday’s ninth skin had already been re-cut and sold on, of course, but there was no possibility at all of anything strange happening again—if anything strange had happened at all. Personally, I don’t think anything had.
I’m just about willing to concede that Ritchie might have been subconsciously drawn to the wearer of his previous skin. There are all kinds of subtle ways in which a second-hand skin might conceivably be recognized, no matter how well it blends with its new owner. What I can’t believe is that Sally’s decision to go into the studios for a while, on the same tram that Ritchie caught to work every day, could be anything but coincidence. Skins don’t have a memory in that sense, and they don’t have that kind of control over their wearers.
In any case, it would be absurd to imagine—even for a moment—that one of Ritchie’s cast-offs would want to get back together with him, if it were capable of wanting anything at all.
THE SPACE CITY, by Doru Tătar
Translated from the Romanian by Petru Iamandi
When the door suddenly opened, Grig was walking up and down the room with unsteady steps. He stopped, and his eyes, which had been wandering from one object to another, focused on the newcomer. There was something stiff, unnatural, about the latter’s middle-sized figure. His bony, hollow-cheeked, ascetic face, with a large thin-lipped mouth, was dominated by his intent, icy blue eyes. He sat down at the desk and opened a file, turned a few pages, frowning, and coughed a little, choosing his words, not knowing how to begin.
“It’s a good thing you’ve come here, Grig, although….”
Something in his voice, a sort of hardness, made Grig wince, confused.
“We’ll have to start it all over again, to clarify each fact….” The newcomer stopped breathing, as if he had choked on something. “So, two years ago….”
A wry smile found its way to Grig’s lined face. He sat down on the other side of the desk, and stared.
“Wouldn’t it be best if I disappeared?” he asked as quietly as quietly as he could, clenching his fists.
The other man shook his head.
“Nonsense! I’ve been authorized to solve this case by myself only if you fully cooperate.”
Grig relaxed and even smiled.
“OK…. So, you’re here not only as a friend but also as a jurist….”
“What else did you expect after handing in your report?”
“Well…not exactly that,” Grig managed to say, swallowing hard.
“Let’s start then. Where did you first meet him?”
Grig took his time, trying to concentrate and control himself. Then he began to speak—quietly, slowly, casually.
“I still remember everything as if it happened yesterday. It was nine a.m., April 19, 2588, when I first met Axel. I was waiting for him at the airport, as we had agreed, with a small hold-all in which I’d put Mem in a hurry, together with the kit, the codes, and a suit of clothes.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about Axel? Was he alone?”
“Yes. He just appeared in front of me…short, with thin bones and a head much too big for the rest of the body, with a shiny bald spot and sinuous lines furrowing his forehead and framing his thick eyebrows. He definitely didn’t look like the selected genotype at all. Nothing but his eyes sh
owed; he was still in the first part of his active life. In fact, his penetrating eyes often made me feel embarrassed. And there was something theatrical about him.”
The jurist kept staring at him.
“What were his first words? How did he speak?”
“‘I’ll call you Grig. I hate formalities.’ He spoke in a slightly condescending tone, at the same time trying to sound friendly.”
“And then?”
“And then he said, ‘I suppose you know who I am but you don’t know why I need an expert in old sociology, do you’?”
“Go on.”
“‘Our destination is South America. I’ll fill you in during the flight,’ he added turning to go. I was holding a thick file in my hand, not knowing when he had slipped it there. I glanced at the yellowish covers and recognized the official color of the Secret Affairs Section of the Planetary Council. Then all of a sudden the glossy paper started to burn my fingers. That sensation left me only when we got on the ship. Before starting to read it, I looked at him. He seemed to have forgotten I was there, and now and again he leaned over a sensor notebook, licking his lips nervously. There was a gustatory programmer implanted in his teeth.”
The jurist looked surprised. “So you noticed he was carrying a permanent programmer?”
“Yes. In fact, that’s what made me use a similar one in which I put the inhibitor, hoping it wouldn’t catch his attention.”
“I see. What did he tell you during the flight?”
“I remember that flight well, because it was one of the quietest I’ve ever had. Usually people make the most of their journeys, trying to enjoy the company of the other passengers. Most of them can hardly stand the solitude of their working places, invaded by computers, memorizers, and auxiliary robots. Axel was different from them, though, and I really appreciated that. It was only toward the end of the flight that he cast one of those inquisitive glances at me, and asked dryly, ‘What have you got in there?’ ‘Mem,’ I answered cautiously. ‘It’s my direct connection with my library at home, among other things. It helps me store whatever I want to forget, and sometimes find whatever I want to know’.”
“Were you sure Axel didn’t suspect anything about the transmitter?”
“Not right then, no. Then I realized he hadn’t made too much of it.”
“Go on. I’ll try not to interrupt you again.”
“The ship landed somewhere near the Equator. By then I was no longer excited. I knew how much Axel needed me, and I was myself again. I just had to play my part, assisting him, whenever it was necessary. In the air-station parking lot, there was an air-glider that took us along a magnetically-guided corridor to the edge of the megalopolis.”
“Did you talk to him during the flight?”
“Yes, I asked a lot of questions related to the file. Axel had clear ready answers for almost all of them. Which didn’t encourage conversation too much. But, knowing I had to do it, I did my best to make him talk more. ‘When did you manage to enter the Space City?’ ‘The day before yesterday. A few hours after the disappearance of the energy barriers.’ ‘And you didn’t find any survivor, did you?’ ‘No, we didn’t.’ ‘Do you admit the isolation you submitted the androids to caused the tragedy? How did they get there?’ ‘That’s what they’d been created for. Humans came and went for a long time without risking getting exposed to cosmic radiation. They started the research work, collected the results, programmed the shipping, and the robots took care of the rest.’ ‘That reminds me of the racial prejudices of the last millennium. Why do you call them robots? Morphologically, an android doesn’t differ from humans, if we leave the structure of the cell nucleus aside, that is…. I think last year’s events were somehow to be expected,’ I challenged him. ‘Frankly speaking, the androids seemed to be exploited, not getting anything in return….’ ‘You mean their integration request?’ Axel asked looking at me suspiciously from under his bushy eyebrows. ‘That’s right. They wanted to be integrated as long as they produced something and lived among us. And what did the humans do? They rounded them up and used them to populate outer space. The only androids that had been left on Terra became outlaws. No wonder despair pushed them to steal humans’ identities and thus hide among us.’
“I saw Axel fidgeting, but I pressed on. ‘You’re a member of the Planetary Council, aren’t you? Most of the humans approved of your decision because you were able to skillfully hide your immorality behind the so-called tests of psychic incompatibility, conventional referendums, and surveys entirely unsuitable for the situation.’ Then we both kept silent. It was Axel who started talking again. He looked indifferent, as if it were not his business at all. ‘I take it you’re one of those who voted against. You may be right. But don’t forget,’ he said changing his tone, ‘androids are the result of biogenesis, not of a natural biological cycle. And then…their huge memory…their operating speed…their intellect…are embarrassing, aren’t they? It’s well they can take cosmic radiations. It’s well their intellect is binary, like a machine. They’re different from us, aren’t they? Aren’t they? They never have to use computers to determine, for instance, the trajectory of an asteroid. They calculate it in their head, like we do when we multiply seven by eight. Do you see what I mean? And that’s embarrassing’.”
The jurist became restless for a moment, and then he asked.
“Didn’t it seem to you at any time that Axel’s resentments toward the androids were not real? That he struck that attitude deliberately?”
Grig looked a little taken aback. “No, never.”
“I see. And then?”
“A tele-beacon message interrupted us: ‘Area under the Direct Authority of the Security Council. No Admittance to Unauthorized Persons.’ I tuned in my bracelet, and the image of a group of strange buildings appeared on its screen. The air-glider went round the area and entered an underground, magnetically-guided corridor. Soon I realized we had reached one of Axel’s bases, and for a couple of days he would be the only man I could be in touch with.”
“Had you ever been so isolated before that?”
“No, but I knew what it would be like. For the rest of the day both of us had to take a number of tiresome tests and checks. Then another set, which only I had to take. Before we parted, Axel said, ‘Your room’s not exactly luxurious, but you’ll find whatever you need there, plus the means to contact me. I want your first report on the file first thing in the morning.’ An hour later I took an ion shower and had a super-concentrate snack. No doubt Axel had several collaborators between those walls. But I knew I’d never see them. Only one person took care of the investigation. That was the rule.”
“Didn’t you object, didn’t you protest against that kind of treatment?”
“No, I never cared about the lack of contact while I was there. I kept focusing on the matter at hand. The androids’ self-isolation in the Space City had lasted about a year, while they denied access to every human being. They honored their economic contracts and never gave the humans a satisfactory explanation about their plans. They had requested a status-quo, wanting simply to be left to their own devices in the place they had been sent to. The energy barrier could be removed only from the outside, and only by destroying it. But, about fifty hours before we got there, the barrier had vanished, letting the humans enter the City…. It was a terrible shock. The androids were lying dead all over the City. No cause of death was found. Almost three thousand androids died within several hours, without any clue about the cause.”
Grig paused, as if waiting for another question, which didn’t come. Then he went on:
“There was one thing that Axel’s team could start from, though. They had found several unknown androids in the biogenesis installation. All codeless. One of them drew their attention in particular because of his stunning resemblance to a man who lived on Terra five hundred years ago. One of the greatest geniuses. His name was Daniel Otis and he was, among other things, the creator of the first generations of biological ro
bots. Otis was the androids’ father. Nearby, in a memoscope, they found a study on the human society as it was five hundred years ago. It included everything that was related to the great scientist’s life and activity. It was obvious to Axel’s team that Daniel Otis had been the androids’ idol. The minuteness with which everything had been researched, to say nothing of his perfect double, was amazing. The androids had most likely deciphered and recorded his genetic code.”
“Did you have a clear idea about your mission there?”
“My mission was to study the memoscope recording and look for something relevant. I also had to reconstruct the events, starting from the sociologic study of a community of intelligent beings, self-isolated because they hadn’t been allowed to share the Terrans’ aspirations and evolution…. Axel was very much aware that the humans’ recklessness had triggered one of the most horrible tragedies of the millennium. Not that he could be blamed for that. On the contrary, he had to solve the mystery and I had to help him. We were part of the same team, weren’t we? It was only this morning that he found how strange that team was.”
“According to your first statement, you worked all that afternoon. Did you do anything else?”
“No. I just wrote the first report. I handed it in first thing in the morning. I thought I’d surprise them. Well, I didn’t. After a stormy argument, I talked Axel into going back in time.”
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