“Perhaps,” Kelly said, smiling coolly, “the solution to the android-discrimination problem would be to create some sickly, ugly androids!”
“They’d just be the exception that proves the rule, Kelly. The only real solution would be to make androids capable of reproduction, and then intermarrying all over the place. But they say that the development of the fertile android is at least five hundred years away.”
“Two hundred,” said Kelly quietly. “Or less. Android biologists are studying the problem. Now that we are emancipated, now that we no longer have to be the slaves and beasts of burden you created us to be, we have begun to examine some of our own needs.”
I found those words mightily unsettling.
“Well, perhaps eventually we’ll outgrow some of our sillier attitudes toward androids,” I said half-heartedly.
Kelly laughed. “And when will that be? You spoke the truth: prejudice is part of your nature. You naturals are so foolish! You run all over the universe looking for people to despise. You sneer at the slow-wittedness of Calamorians, you make jokes about the size and smell of Dinamonians, you laugh at the habits of Shilamakka and Thhhians and every other alien race. You admire their unusual gifts and skills, but privately you look down on them because they have too many eyes or heads or arms. Am I right?”
I felt as if I had lost control of the conversation. I had simply wanted to know what it felt like to be android, to hold such a complex place in modern society — but here I was on the defensive, trying to account for the idiot prejudices that H. sapiens holds so dear.
What got me off the hook was the arrival of Jan. She drifted into the cabin wearing the pale, ghostly look that people sometimes get after a few hours in the nothing chamber; her eyes were dreamy, her facial muscles so relaxed that she looked like a sleepwalker. Lying in a warm bath of chemicals like that, with your ears plugged and eyes capped, will do that to you. Jan floated in like one of the headless wives of Henry VIII, looked at me, looked at Kelly, smiled strangely, said, “Excuse me,” in a silvery, trilling voice, and floated out again. Weird.
Somehow that punctured the discussion of racial prejudice. We didn’t start it again. Kelly began talking about inscription nodes instead, and after a while I said good night and went to sleep. Since then we’ve spent several evenings together, sitting up late and talking. I think Kelly is using me as a way of avoiding the sticky attentions of Leroy Chang, but I don’t mind. With Jan so conspicuously ignoring me, it’s pleasant to have Kelly to talk to. And rewarding to discover that an android can be a real person in so many ways. There’s an underlying core of calmness in Kelly that nothing can penetrate, and which to me betrays her artificial origin; but above that she’s got moods, strong feelings, a sense of fun, sophistication, and a lot more. She tends to be a little defensive about being an android, in an if-you-prick-us-do-we-not-bleed? kind of way, but that’s not surprising. I won’t pretend that I’ve shaken off my prejudices. I keep thinking that Kelly is very human, but… and it’s that damned but that won’t go away. Still, I’m making progress.
It scares me a little to think that in a couple of centuries there may be intermarriage between androids and humans, with children produced. I wonder why that thought frightens me so much. Because an injection of android blood into our genetic pool may change us, maybe? Improve us? The thought hits me where my prejudices live.
But I won’t be there to see it happen. That’s comforting. Or is it?
On that ambiguous note I stopped dictating, ten days ago. It is now close to the end of November, and I pick up this cube again just to add the P.S. that we will be reaching GGC 1145591 in five more days. I doubt that anything significant will happen between now and then, and so I’m going to seal the cube.
Status remains quo in all ways. Whenever I see Jan, she’s with Saul and they’re deep in a discussion of the self-cancelling French stamps of 2115, or whatever. Kelly suggests I take up coin collecting in self defense. The idea doesn’t seem practical. What the zog, I suppose Saul is just the better man. I wish I knew why, though.
Away with such trivia. The dark star awaits us.
ELEVEN
December 12, 2375
Planet III of GGC 1145591
We are very much on our own here. And things are extremely strange. I never imagined, when I picked a sedate profession like archaeology, that it would bring me to anything like this.
We are in a solar system that knows no daylight. We seem bewitched, transformed into gnomes, condemned to scuttle through dark tunnels lit only by a faint purplish glow breaking through from somewhere far above. But there are no tunnels. We are at the surface of the world. This is the condition of life here: unending darkness.
Even on Pluto the sun brings a sort of light, but not here. The sun of this solar system is a dead star, or rather one that is so close to death that we can sense the intensity of its final struggles. Our mood is subdued. We say little to one another. The petty conflicts that sometimes used to break out among us no longer break out. This place casts a mysterious spell. I feel as if I’m caught inside a cage of dreams.
The ultradrive crew that brought us here lost no time in clearing out. The cruiser landed on the third planet of the system, which has no name. (We are trying to think of one.) The crewmen unloaded our gear. Then they took off, fast.
Our rented planetship was waiting for us. It’s a little undersized, but it’ll do: carrying capacity of twenty-five, passengers and crew. For purposes of calculations the eleven of us count as twenty, thanks to Mirrik’s extra tonnage. The ship has a two-man crew. The captain is straight out of bad movies, a veteran-of-the-spaceways type with seamed space-tanned skin and faded blue eyes; he chews some mildly narcotic weed from a Deneb world and goes around spitting everywhere. The weed gives him the smell of a cloying perfume, which is a little at odds with his tough-guy image. His name is Nick Ludwig and he says he’s been piloting rental ships for thirty years. He’s ferried a lot of chartered cruises of millionaires around, but never archaeologists. The co-pilot is an android named Webber Fileclerk, with the usual glamor-plus appearance. An odd team.
The planetship is both our transport and our housing, for we have no facilities for blowing bubbleshacks. Whenever we go outside, we have to run through a complete airlock cycle, which is a sposhing pain, and we have to put on breathing-suits. There’s no atmosphere on this world. More accurately, there is one, but it’s frozen solid. The temperature here runs maybe five degrees above absolute, and everything freezes, hydrogen, oxygen, the whole periodic table. Our suits are insulated, of course, but it would be a quick death if a joint sprang.
Once upon a time this may have been a fairly decent Earthtype world. It’s a little more massive than Earth, and the gravity is maybe 1.25, which is to say enough to slow you down but not anything really uncomfortable. The atmosphere that lies around here in icy heaps was evidently our friendly oxygen-nitrogen mix. A terraforming crew could probably turn this place into a zingo resort planet simply by juicing up the thermonuclear reactions of the local sun until things thawed out.