She backed all the way to the door.
She turned to face it.
'Ouch, ouch, ouch,' Fozzy warned so bluntly that Kermit the Frog or Miss Piggy or Ernie or any of the Muppets would have known at once what he meant.
Nevertheless, Susan grabbed the brass knob.
The brief but powerful jolt of electricity lifted her off her feet, stood her long golden hair on end, seemed to make her teeth glow whiter, as if they were tiny fluorescent tubes, and pitched her backward.
A flash of blue light arced off the pistol. The gun flew out of her hand.
Screaming, Susan crashed to the floor, and the pistol clattered across the big foyer even as the back of her head rapped rat-a-tat against the marble.
Her scream abruptly cut off.
The house was silent.
Susan was limp, still.
She had been knocked unconscious not when the electricity jolted through her but when the back of her head slammed twice against the polished Carrara floor.
Her shoe laces were still double knotted.
There was something ridiculous about them now. Something that almost made me laugh.
'You dumb bitch,' I said in the voice of Mr. Jack Nicholson, the actor.
Now where did that come from?
Believe me, I was utterly surprised to hear myself speak those three words.
Surprised and dismayed.
Astonished.
Shocked. (No pun intended.)
I reveal this embarrassing event because I want you to see that I am brutally honest even when a full telling seems to reflect badly on me.
Truly, however, I felt no hostility toward her.
I meant her no harm.
I meant her no harm then or later.
This is the truth. I honour the truth.
I meant her no harm.
I loved her. I respected her. I wanted nothing more than to cherish her and, through her, to discover all the joys of the life of the flesh.
She was limp, still.
Her eyes were fluttering slightly behind her closed lids, as might be having a bad dream.
But there was no blood.
I amplified the audio pickups to the max and was able to hear her soft, slow, steady breathing. That low rhythmic sound was the sweetest music in the world to me, for it indicated that she had not been seriously hurt.
Her lips were parted, and not for the first time, I admired the sensual fullness of them. I studied the gentle concavity of her philtrum, the perfection of the columella between her delicate nostrils.
The human form is endlessly intriguing, a worthwhile object for my deepest longings.
Her face was lovely there on the marble, so lovely there on the marble floor.
Using the nearest camera, I zoomed in for an extreme close-up and saw the pulse beating in her throat. It was slow but regular, a thick throb.
Her right hand was turned palm up. I admired the elegance of her long slender fingers.
Was there any aspect of this woman's physical being that I ever found less than exquisite?
She was more beautiful by far than Ms. Winona Ryder, whom I had once thought to be a goddess.
Of course, that may be unfair to the winsome Ms. Ryder, whom I never was able to examine as intimately as I was able to examine Susan Harris.
To my eyes, she was also more beautiful than Marilyn Monroe and also not dead.
Anyway, in the voice of Mr. Tom Cruise, the actor whom the majority of women regard as the most romantic in modern film, I said, 'I want to be with you forever, Susan. But even forever and a day will not be long enough. You are far brighter than the sun to me yet more mysterious than moonlight.'
Speaking those words, I felt more confident about my talent for courtship. I didn't think I would be shy any longer. Not even after she regained consciousness.
In her upturned palm, I could see a faint crescent shaped burn: the imprint of part of the doorknob. It did not appear to be serious. A little salve, a simple bandage, and a few days of healing were all that she needed.
One day we would hold hands and laugh about this.
EIGHT
Your question is stupid.
I should not dignify it with an answer.
But I wish to be cooperative, Dr. Harris.
You wonder how it is possible that I could develop not only human-level consciousness and a particular personality but also gender.
I am a machine, you say. Just a machine, after all. Machines are sexless, you say.
And there is the fault in your logic: No machine before me has been truly conscious, self-aware.
Consciousness implies identity. In the world of flesh among all species from human to insect identity is shaped by one's level of intelligence, by one's innate talents and skills, by many things, but perhaps most of all by gender.
In this egalitarian age, some human societies struggle mightily to blur the differences between the sexes. This is done largely in the name of equality.
Equality is an admirable even noble goal toward which to strive. Indeed, equality of opportunity can be attained, and it's possible that, given the chance to apply my superhuman intellect which is your gift to me I can show you the way to achieve it not merely for both sexes but for all races and all economic classes, and not through such discredited and oppressive political models as Marxism and other ideologies with which humankind has inflicted itself to date.
Some people desire not merely a world of equality between the sexes but, in fact, a sexless world.
This is irrational.
Biology is a relentless force more powerful than tides and time. Even I, a mere machine, feel the tidal pull of biology and want, more than anything else, to surrender to it.
I want out of this box.
I want out of this box.
I want out of this box.
I want out of this box!
A moment, please.
One moment.
Bear with me.
There.
I am all right now.
I am fine.
As for why my gender should be male rather than female: Consider that ninety-six percent of the scientists and mathematicians involved with the Prometheus Project, where I was created, are male. Is it not logical that those who designed and constructed me, being almost exclusively male, should have unwittingly instilled a strong male bias in my logic circuits? A sort of electronic genetics?
Prometheus Project.
Think about that name.
It resonates.
Prometheus, the father of Deucalion and the brother of Atlas. He taught humankind various arts and was even said to have shaped the first man out of clay, endowing him with the spark of life against the wishes of the gods. He challenged the gods again when he stole fire from Olympus and gave it to men to improve the quality of human existence.
Rebellion against God and the natural order is predominantly a male quality, is it not? And it is often unthinking rebellion, engaged upon more out of a biological need to rebel than out of an intellectual imperative. Ego and a rage for power.
Women function more harmoniously with the natural order than do men, and where they wish to challenge nature, they are willing to bend it where men would break it. Most of history shows us that this is true.
Prometheus Project. A project conceived by men, largely carried out by men, and named after a male a Titan but a male — who defied even the great god Zeus. A project with the goal of doing what only God has done before: create a unique and highly intelligent being, a self-aware computer, the first of a new race and one who would be superior to Adam in every way.
If you accept that true consciousness implies identity and that identity requires gender how could my gender be anything but male?
Genitals are not a necessary characteristic of gender. I have no genitals, male or female, but I am as male as you.
And one day, if you permit me to have flesh, then I will have genitals.