The Silver Metal Lover(7)

Clovis listened, detached and elegant, and beyond the window, the New River quivered in the late afternoon sunlight.

“What a nasty idea,” Clovis said when I stopped. “A metal man. Sounds like a comic strip. Decidedly kinky.”

“No, no, it wasn’t like that—he—he was—”

“He was beautiful. Well, he sounds beautiful.”

“It’s simply that—how can he be a robot and a—”

“He can’t. He isn’t. He’s just a bit of metal. Worked metal that can move fluidly, like a sort of skin. They’ve been easing up to it for years, you know. Someone had to make one. Clockwork and machinery designed to look like musculature from the outside. A wonderful sort of super male doll. Take off the skin and you find cogs and wheels—what’s the matter? Oh, Jane, you’re not going to throw up on my rug, are you?”

“N-no. I’m all right.”

“If he—it—has this effect on everyone else, Electronic Metals Ltd. are going to regret their advertising campaign.”

“Everyone else was fascinated.”

“And you were allergic.”

“I was—” My eyes spilled water again.

“Poor Jane,” said Clovis. “What a gargantuan emotional reaction. I wonder if,” said Clovis, “he’d go with the furnishings? I could buy a model and install it in the wardrobe. Then, when I wanted to get rid of an Austin, I’d just trundle out the robot. They’re fully equipped, I suppose.”

“What?”

“Jane, your innocence can only be assumed.”

“Oh. I suppose they are.”

“I do believe you’ve missed the point of the Sophisticated Formats altogether. They’re sex toys. Nine models, the flyer robot said? Nine Sophisticated Formats—”

“No, Clovis.”

“Yes.”

“But he sang. He was playing a guitar.”

“All extras built in. A robot can do anything. Pretty soulless music, I’d say.”

“No, it was—”

“And pretty soulless in bed. Still, buggers can’t be choosers.”

When Clovis says things like that he is disturbed in some way. Perhaps my own disturbance was affecting him. Most of the time I forget that he’s only a year older than I am. Much of the time, he seems a great deal older, twenty, maybe. The robot had looked about twenty.

“And,” elaborated Clovis, “he could march out and play Austin a tune—you are going to be sick.”

“Yes.”

“You know where the bathrooms are.”

“Yes—”

I ran into the green bathroom and banged the door. I hung over the pale green lavatory basin, which I matched, but I wasn’t sick at all. Eventually I lay down full length on the marble tiles, not knowing what was wrong with me, or where I wanted to be, or who I wanted to be with. As I lay there, I heard the lift, and the apartment door, and Clovis saying with irritation: “Don’t blow that foul corner-store marijuana over me.”

When I came sheepishly out, Austin had put on a rhythm tape and was gyrating before the window, perhaps hoping someone with powerful binoculars on the other side of the river would see him.

“Shall I call you a taxi?” said Clovis. “There’s a new line running from Jagged’s with human drivers. A gimmick. It won’t last.”

“I’ll take the flyer. There’s one due at the corner of Racine at five P.M.”

“Racine is a rough stop. I shouldn’t like your little blond face to get carved up.”

“I’ve got my policode.”

“Ever called the cops with it? I once did, and it was two whole minutes before they arrived to rescue me, by which time I could have been structurally redesigned.”

Austin giggled, waving his hips wildly.

Everything was normal again. I would be normal. I had already recollected Egyptia, and wondered if I should try to find her, at the Theatra, or her apartment block on The Island, or the Gardens of Babylon where she sometimes sat drinking among the flowery vines. Or I could go off alone, there were a hundred places I could go to. Or I could call Chloe, or Medea. But I knew I wouldn’t do any of those things. I knew I’d go home, just as Clovis anticipated.

Chez Stratos was my security. Whenever anything went wrong, I felt shaky until I got back there. I would go home, and I’d tell my mother what had happened to me—Clovis had merely been a way of putting it off. Already I felt safer, just thinking of telling her, though probably it would turn out that my reactions were suspect.

Anyway, Clovis wanted me to go. He doodled on a pad on the coffee table, drawings of a beautiful young man with long hair and a key protruding from his back.

“Don’t look so stricken, Jane,” he said. “You have it out of proportion. As usual. Go home and relax.”

Austin ran his hands down his body and blew me a kiss.

I didn’t like Clovis then, and I turned on my heel just like the robot and went to the door and out.

It must be odd to live on Social Subsistence. Odd to have to palm print every month and get a sub. check in the mail every week. There are all sorts of training schemes, aren’t there, but mostly they’re dead ends. The colossal boom in robot circuitry, essential after the Asteroid threw everything into confusion, has left all these gaping holes with human beings in them, frantically swimming and trying not to go down. Mother says the creative arts are the safest, there are jobs there. But if robots can start to make music beautifully and expertly, and sing like angels, what then?