Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction

by Leigh Grossman

  * * * *

  Stephen found her again in the Café Parisien, sitting in a large wicker chair beside an ornately trellised wall.

  “Well, hello, you,” Esme said, smiling. She was the very model of a smart, stylish young lady.

  “Does that mean you’re still interested?” Stephen asked, standing before her. Her smile was infectious, and Stephen felt himself losing his poise, as he couldn’t stop grinning.

  “But mais oui,” she said. Then she relaxed in her chair, slumped down as if she could instantly revert to being a child—in fact, the dew was still on her—and she looked around the room as though Stephen had suddenly disappeared.

  “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

  “That’s French, which no one uses anymore, but it was the language of the world when this ship first sailed.”

  “I believe it was English,” Stephen said smoothly.

  “Well,” she said, looking up at him, “it means that I might be interested if you’d kindly sit down instead of looking down at me from the heights.” Stephen sat down beside her and she said, “It took you long enough to find me.”

  “Well,” Stephen said, “I had to dress. Remember? You didn’t find my previous attire as—”

  “I agree and I apologize,” she said quickly, as if suddenly afraid of hurting his feelings. She folded her hands behind the box that she had centered perfectly on the damask-covered table. Her leg brushed against his; indeed, he did look fine, dressed in gray striped trousers, spats, black morning coat, blue vest, and a silk cravat tied under a butterfly collar. He fiddled with his hat, then placed it on the seat of the empty chair beside him. No doubt he would forget to take it.

  “Now,” she said, “don’t you feel better?”

  Stephen was completely taken with her; this had never happened to him before. He found it inexplicable. A tall and very English waiter disturbed him by asking if he wished to order cocktails, but Esme asked for a Narcodrine instead.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but Narcodrines or inhalors are not publicly sold on the ship,” the waiter said dryly.

  “Well, that’s what I want.”

  “One would have to ask the steward for the more modern refreshments.”

  “You did say you wanted to live in the past,” Stephen said to Esme, and ordered a Campari for her and a Drambuie for himself.

  “Right now I would prefer a robot to take my order,” Esme said.

  “I’m sorry, but we have no robots on the ship either,” the waiter said before he turned away.

  “Are you going to show me what’s inside the box?” Stephen asked.

  “I don’t like that man,” Esme said.

  “Esme, the box…”

  “It might cause a stir if I opened it here.”

  “I would think you’d like that,” Stephen said.

  “You see, you know me intimately already.” Then she smiled and winked at someone four tables away. “Isn’t he cute?”

  “Who?”

  “The little boy with the black hair parted in the middle.” She waved at him, but he ignored her and made an obscene gesture at a woman who looked to be his nanny. Then Esme opened the box, which drew the little boy’s attention. She pulled out a full-sized head of man and placed it gently beside the box.

  “Jesus,” Stephen said.

  “Stephen, I’d like you to meet Poppa. Poppa, this is Stephen.”

  “I’m pleased to meetcha, Stephen,” said the head in a full, resonant voice.

  “Speak properly, Poppa,” Esme said. “Meet you.”

  “Don’t correct your father.” The head rolled his eyes toward Stephen and then said to Esme, “Turn me a bit, so I can see your friend without eyestrain.” The head had white hair, which was a bit yellowed on the ends. It was neatly trimmed at the sides and combed up into a pompadour in the front. The face was strong, although already gone to seed. It was the face of a man in his late sixties, lined and suntanned.

  “What shall I call, uh, him?” Stephen asked.

  “You may speak to me directly, son.” said the head. “My given name is Elliot.”

  “Pleased to meetcha,” Stephen said, recouping. He had heard of such things, but had never seen one before.

  “These are going to be all the rage in the next few months,” Esme said. “They aren’t on the mass market yet, but you can imagine their potential for both adults and children. They can be programmed to talk and react very realistically.”

  “So I see,” Stephen said.

  The head smiled, accepting the compliment.

  “He also learns and thinks quite well,” Esme continued.

  “I should hope so,” said the head.

  The room was buzzing with conversation. At the other end, a small dance band was playing a waltz. Only a few Europeans and Americans openly stared at the head; the Africans and Asians, who were in the majority, pretended to ignore it. The little boy was staring unabashedly.

  “Is your father alive?” Stephen asked.

  “I am her father,” the head said, its face betraying its impatience. “At least give me some respect.”

  “Be civil, or I’ll close you,” Esme said, piqued. She looked at Stephen. “Yes, he died recently. That’s the reason I’m taking this trip, and that’s the reason for this…” She nodded to the head. “He’s marvelous, though. He is my father in every way.” Then, mischievously, she said, “Well, I did make a few changes. Poppa was very demanding, you know.”

  “You ungrateful—”

  “Shut up, Poppa.”

  And Poppa simply shut his eyes.

  “That’s all I have to say,” Esme said, “and he turns himself off. In case you aren’t as perceptive as I think you are, I love Poppa very much.”

  The little boy, unable to control his curiosity any longer, came over to the table, just as Esme was putting Poppa back in the box. In his rush to get to the table, he knocked over one of the ivy pots along the wall. “Why’d you put him away?” he asked. “I want to talk to him. Take him out, just for a minute.”

  “No,” Esme said firmly, “he’s asleep just for now. And what’s your name?”

  “Michael, and please don’t be condescending.”

  “I’m sorry, Michael.”

  “Apology accepted. Now, please, can I see the head, just for a minute?”

  “If you like, Michael, you can have a private audience with Poppa tomorrow,” Esme said. “How’s that?”

  “But—”

  “Shouldn’t you be getting back to your nanny now?” Stephen asked, standing up and nodding to Esme to do the same. They would have no privacy here.

  “Stuff it,” Michael said. “And she’s not my nanny, she’s my sister.” Then he pulled a face at Stephen; he was able to contort his lips, drawing the right side toward the left and left toward the right, as if they were made of rubber. Michael followed Stephen and Esme out of the cafe and up the staircase to the Boat Deck.

  The Boat Deck was not too crowded; it was brisk out, and the breeze had a chill to it. Looking forward, Stephen and Esme could see the ship’s four huge smokestacks to their left and a cluster of four lifeboats to their right. The ocean was a smooth, deep green expanse turning to blue toward the horizon. The sky was empty, except for a huge, nuclear-powered airship that floated high over the Titanic—the dirigible California, a French luxury liner capable of carrying two thousand passengers.

  “Are you two married?” Michael asked, after pointing out the airship above. He trailed a few steps behind him.

  “No, we are not,” Esme said impatiently. “Not yet, at least,” and Stephen felt exhilarated at the thought of her really wanting him. Actually, it made no sense, for he could have any young woman he wanted. Why Esme? Simply because just now she was perfect.

  “You’re quite pretty,” Michael said to Esme.

  “Well, thank you,” Esme replied, warming to him. “I like you too.”

  “Watch it,” said the boy. “Are you going to stay on the ship and die when it
sinks?”

  “No!” Esme said, as if taken aback.

  “What about your friend?”

  “You mean Poppa?”

  Vexed, the boy said, “No, him”, giving Stephen a nasty look.

  “Well, I don’t know,” Esme said. Her face was flushed. “Have you opted for a lifeboat, Stephen?”

  “Yes, of course I have.”

  “Well, we’re going to die on the ship,” Michael said.

  “Don’t be silly,” Esme said.

  “Well, we are.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?” Stephen asked.

  “My sister and I. We’ve made a pact to go down with the ship.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Esme said. She stopped beside one of the lifeboats, rested the box containing Poppa on the rail, and gazed downward at the ocean spume curling away from the side of the ship.

  “He’s just baiting us,” Stephen said, growing tired of the game. “Anyway, he’s too young to make such a decision, and his sister, if she is his sister, could not decide such a thing for him, even if she were his guardian. It would be illegal.”

  “We’re at sea,” Michael said in the nagging tone of voice children use. “I’ll discuss the ramifications of my demise with Poppa tomorrow. I’m sure he’s more conversant with such things than you are.”

  “Shouldn’t you be getting back to your sister now?” Stephen asked. Michael responded by making the rubber-lips face at him, and then walked away, tugging at the back of his shorts, as if his undergarments had bunched up beneath. He only turned around to wave good-bye to Esme, who blew him a kiss.

  “Intelligent little brat,” Stephen said.

  But Esme looked as if she had just forgotten all about Stephen and the little boy. She stared at the box as tears rolled from her eyes.

  “Esme?”

  “I love him and he’s dead,” she said, and then she seemed to brighten. She took Stephen’s hand and they went inside, down the stairs, through several noisy corridors—state-room parties were in full swing—to her suite. Stephen was a bit nervous, but all things considered, everything was progressing at a proper pace.

  Esme’s suite had a parlor and a private promenade deck with Elizabethan half-timbered walls. She led him right into the plush-carpeted, velour-papered bedroom, which contained a huge four-poster bed, an antique night table, and a desk and a stuffed chair beside the door. The ornate, harp-sculpture desk lamp was on, as was the lamp just inside the bed curtains. A porthole gave a view of sea and sky. But to Stephen it seemed that the bed overpowered the room.

  Esme pushed the desk lamp aside, and then took Poppa out of the box and placed him carefully in the center of the desk. “There.” Then she undressed quickly, looking shyly away from Stephen, who was taking his time. She slipped between the parted curtains of the bed and complained that she could hear the damn engines thrumming right through these itchy pillows—she didn’t like silk. After a moment she sat up in bed and asked him if he intended to get undressed or just stand there.

  “I’m sorry,” Stephen said, “but it’s just—” He nodded toward the head.

  “Poppa is turned off, you know.”

  * * * *

  Afterward, reaching for an inhalor, taking a long pull, and then finally opening her eyes, she said, “I love you too.” Stephen only moved in his sleep.

  “That’s very nice, dear,” Poppa said, opening his eyes and smiling at her from the desk.

  * * * *

  Little Michael knocked on Esme’s door at seven-thirty the next morning.

  “Good morning,” Michael said, looking Esme up and down. She had not bothered to put anything on before answering the door. “I came to see Poppa. I won’t disturb you.”

  “Jesus, Mitchell—”

  “Michael.”

  “Jesus, Michael, it’s too early for—”

  “Early bird gets the worm.”

  “Oh, right,” Esme said. “And what the hell does that mean?”

  “I calculated that my best chance of talking with Poppa was if I woke you up. You’ll go back to bed and I can talk with him in peace. My chances would be greatly diminished if—”

  “Awright, come in.”

  “The steward in the hall just saw you naked.”

  “Big deal. Look, why don’t you come back later, I’m not ready for this, and I don’t know why I let you in the room.”

  “You see, it worked.” Michael looked around the room. “He’s in the bedroom, right?”

  Esme nodded and followed him into the bedroom. Michael was wearing the same wrinkled shirt and shorts that he had on yesterday; his hair was not combed, just tousled.

  “Is he with you, too?” Michael asked.

  “If you mean Stephen, yes.”

  “I thought so,” said Michael. Then he sat down at the desk and talked to Poppa.

  “Can’t we have any privacy?” Stephen asked when Esme came back to bed. She shrugged and took a pull at her inhalor. Drugged, she looked even softer, more vulnerable. “I thought you told me that Poppa was turned off all night,” he continued angrily.

  “But he was turned off,” Esme said. “I just now turned him back on for Michael.” Then she cuddled up to Stephen, as intimately as if they had been in love for days. That seemed to mollify him.

  “Do you have a spare Narcodrine in there?” Michael shouted.

  Stephen looked at Esme and laughed. “No,” Esme said, “you’re too young for such things.” She opened the curtain so they could watch Michael. He made the rubber-lips face at Stephen and then said, “I might as well try everything. I’ll be dead soon.”

  “You know,” Esme said to Stephen, “I believe him.”

  “I’m going to talk to his sister, or whoever she is, about this.”

  “I heard what you said.” Michael turned away from Poppa, who seemed lost in thought. “I have very good hearing, I heard everything you said. Go ahead and talk to her, talk to the captain, if you like. It won’t do you any good. I’m an international hero, if you’d like to know. The girl who wears the camera in her hair already did an interview for me for the poll.” Then he gave them his back and resumed his hushed conversation with Poppa.

  “Who does he mean?” asked Esme.

  “The woman reporter from Interfax,” Stephen said.

  “Her job is to guess which passengers will opt to die, and why,” interrupted Michael, who turned around in his chair. “She interviews the most interesting passengers, then gives her predictions to her viewers—and they are considerable. They respond immediately to a poll taken several times a day. Keeps us in their minds, and everybody loves the smell of death.” Michael turned back to Poppa.

  “Well, she hasn’t tried to interview me.”

  “Do you really want her to?” Stephen asked.

  “And why not? I’m for conspicuous consumption, and I want so much for this experience to be a success. Goodness, let the whole world watch us sink, if they want. They might just as well take bets.” Then, in a conspiratorial whisper, she said, “None of us really knows who’s opted to die. That’s part of the excitement. Isn’t it?”

  “I suppose,” Stephen said.

  “Oh, you’re such a prig,” Esme said. “One would think you’re a doer.”

  “What?”

  “A doer. All of us are either doers or voyeurs, isn’t that right? But the doers mean business,” and to illustrate she cocked her head, stuck out her tongue, and made gurgling noises as if she were drowning. “The voyeurs, however, are just along for the ride. Are you sure you’re not a doer?”

  Michael, who had been eavesdropping again, said, referring to Stephen, “He’s not a doer, you can bet on that! He’s a voyeur of the worst sort. He takes it all seriously.”

  “Mitchell, that’s not a very nice thing to say. Apologize or I’ll turn Poppa off and you can go right—”

  “I told you before, its Michael. M-I-C-H-A-”

  “Now that’s enough disrespect from both of you,” Poppa said. “Michael, stop goa
ding Stephen. Esme says she loves him. Esme, be nice to Michael. He just made my day. And you don’t have to threaten to turn me off. I’m turning myself off. I’ve got some thinking to do.” Poppa closed his eyes and nothing Esme said would awaken him.

  “Well, he’s never done that before,” Esme said to Michael, who was now standing before the bed and trying to place his feet as wide apart as he could. “What did you say to him?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “Come on, Michael, I let you into the room, remember?”

  “I remember. Can I come into bed with you?”

  “Hell, no,” Stephen said.

  “He’s only a child,” Esme said as she moved over to make room for Michael, who climbed in between her and Stephen. “Be a sport. You’re the man I love.”

  “Do you believe in transmigration of souls?” Michael asked Esme.

  “What?”

  “Well, I asked Poppa if he remembered any of his past lives, that is, if he had any. Poppa’s conscious, you know, even if he is a machine.”

  “Did your sister put such ideas in your head?” Esme asked.

  “Now you’re being condescending.” However, Michael made the rubber-lips face at Stephen, rather than at Esme, Stephen made a face back at him, and Michael howled in appreciation, then became quite serious and said, “On the contrary, I helped my sister to remember. It wasn’t easy, either, because she hasn’t lived as many lives as I have. She’s younger than me. I bet I could help you to remember,” he said to Esme.

  “And what about me?” asked Stephen, playing along, enjoying the game a little now.

  “You’re a nice man, but you’re too filled up with philosophy and rationalizations. You wouldn’t grasp any of it; it’s too simple. Anyway, you’re in love and distracted.”

  “Well, I’m in love too,” Esme said petulantly.

  “But you’re in love with everything. He’s only in love with one thing at a time.”

  “Am I a thing to you?” Esme asked Stephen.

  “Certainly not.”