Alice gave her a brief smile. "I'll share. Okay, let's get this into the dining room."
It took all three of them to carry everything, but no second trip was needed. They set the food on the long dining table. The tablecloth was an intricate damask that seemed to be different every night. The table itself was familiar, another hand-me-down. Lena's presence was still everywhere.
Robert sat down beside Miri. "You know," he said, more to probe reactions than anything else. "This all seems a bit primitive to me. Where are the robot servants — or even the little automatic hands to put the TV dinners in the 'wave and take them out?"
His daughter-in-law gave an irritated shrug. "Where it makes sense, we have robots."
Robert remembered Alice Gong when she had married Bob. Back then, Alice had been an impenetrable diplomat — so smooth that most people never realized her skill. In those days, he had still had his edge both with verse and with people; he took such a personality as a challenge. And yet, his former self had never been able to find a chink in her armor. The new Alice only imitated the composure of the old, and with varying success. Tonight was not one of her better nights.
Robert remembered the news about Paraguay and took a stab in the dark. "Worried about Bob?"
She gave him an odd smile. "No. Bob is fine."
Miri glanced at her mother and then chirped, "Actually, if you want mechs, you should see my doll collection."
Mechs? Dolls? It was hard to dominate people when you didn't know what they were talking about. He backed up: "I mean, there are all the things that future freaks have been predicting for a hundred years and that never happened. Things such as air cars."
Miri looked up from her steaming food. At one corner of the tray there really was a bowl of ice cream. "We have air taxis. Does that count?"
"That gets partial credit." Then he surprised himself: "When can I see one?" The Robert of old would have dimissed mechanical contrivances as beneath any mature interest.
"Any time! How about after dinner?" This last question was directed at Alice as much as Robert.
That brought a more natural smile to Alice's face. "Maybe this weekend."
They ate in silence for a moment. I wish I could taste this stuff .
Then Alice was onto the topic she must have been saving up: "You know, Robert, I've been looking at the medics' reports on you. You're almost up to speed now. Have you considered resuming your career?"
"Why, of course. I'm thinking about it all the time. I've got new writing ideas — " He gestured expansively, and was surprised by the fear that suddenly rose in him. "Hey, don't worry, Alice. I've got my writing. I've got job offers from schools all around the country. I'll be out of your way as soon as I get my feet solidly on the ground."
Miri said, "Oh no, Robert! You can stay with us. We like having you here."
"But at this point don't you think you should be actively reaching out?" said Alice.
Robert looked back mildly. "How is that?"
"Well, you know that Reed Weber's last session with you is next Tuesday. I'll bet there are still new skills you'd like to master. Have you considered taking classes? Fairmont High has a number of special — "
Colonel Alice was doing pretty well, but she was handicapped by the thirteen-year-old at Robert's side. Miri piped up with "Yecco. That's our vocational track. A few old people and lots of teenage dumbheads. It's dull, dull, dull."
"Miri, there are basic skills — "
"Reed Weber has done a lot of that. And I can teach Robert to wear." She patted his arm. "Don't worry, Robert. Once you learn to wear, you can learn anything. Right now, you're in a trap; it's like you're seeing the world through a little hole, just whatever your naked eye sees — and what you can get from that'' She pointed at the magic foolscap that was tucked into his shirt pocket. "With some practice you should be able to see and hear as good as anyone."
Alice shook her head. "Miri. There are lots of people who don't use contacts and wearables."
"Yes, but they're not my grandfather." And there was that defiant little thrust of her jaw. "Robert, you should be wearing. You look silly walking around with that view-page clutched in your hand."
Alice seemed about to object more forcefully. Then she settled back, watching Miri with a neutral gaze that Robert couldn't fathom.
Miri didn't seem to notice the look. She leaned her head forward, and stuck a finger close to her right eye. "You already know about contacts, right? Wanna see one?" Her hand came away from her eye. A tiny disk sat on the tip of her middle finger. It was the size and shape of the contact lenses he had known. He hadn't expected anything more, but… he bent close and looked. After a moment, he realized that it was not quite a clear lens. Speckles of colored brightness swirled and gathered in it. "I'm driving it at safety max, or you wouldn't see the lights." The tiny lens became hazy, then frosty white. "Uk. It powered down. But you get the idea." She popped it back into her eye, and grinned at him. Now her right eye was fogged with an enormous cataract.
"You should get a fresh one, dear," said Alice.
"Oh no," said Miri. "Once it warms up, it'll be good for the rest of the day." And in fact the "cataract" was fading, Miri's dark brown iris showing through. "So what do you think, Robert?"
That it's a rather gross substitute for what I can do simply by reading my view-page . "That's all there is to it?"
"um, no. I mean, we can fix you up with one of Bob's shirts and a box of contacts right away. It's learning to use them that's the trick."
Colonel Alice said, "Without some control it's like old-time television, but much more intrusive. We wouldn't want you to be hijacked, Robert. How about this: I'll get you some trainer clothes and that box of contacts that Miri mentioned. Meantime, give some thought to attending Fairmont High, okay?"
Miri leaned forward and grinned at her mother. "Betcha he's wearing inside of a week. He won't need those loser classes." Robert smiled benignly over Miri's head.
In fact, there had been job offers. His return had percolated onto the web, and twelve schools had written him. But five were simply speaking invitations. Three were for semester artist-in-residence gigs. And the others weren't from first-rank schools. It was not exactly the welcome Robert expected for one of "the century's literary giants" (quoting the critics here).
They're afraid I'm still a vegetable.
So Robert kept the offers on ice and worked on his writing. He would show the doubters he was as sharp as ever — and in the doing, he would overleap them, to the sort of recognition he deserved.
But progress was slow on the poetry front. Progress was slow on a lot of fronts. His face actually looked young now. Reed said such complete cosmetic success was rare, that Robert was a perfect target for the "Venn-Kurasawa" process. Wonderful. But his coordination remained spastic and his joints ached all the time. Most ignominious, he still had to hike down to the John several times each night to take a leak. That was surely the Fates reminding him he was still an old man.
Yesterday had been Weber's last visit. The guy had a menial mind, but it was exactly matched to the menial aid he provided. I'll miss him, I suppose . Not least because now there was another empty hour in every day.
And progress was especially slow on the poetry front.
For Robert, dreams had never been an important source of inspiration (though he had claimed otherwise in several well-known interviews). But wide-awake attempts at creativity were the last resort of pedestrian minds. For Robert Gu, real creativity most often came after a good night's sleep, just as he roused himself to wakefulness. That moment was such a reliable source of inspiration that when he was having problems with writing he would often go the pedestrian route in the evening, stock up his mind with the intransigencies of the moment… and then the next morning, drowsing, review what he knew. There in the labile freshness of new consciousness, answers would drift into view. In his years at Stanford, he'd run the phenomenon past philosophers, religionists, and the hard-science people. They'd had a hundred explanations, from Freudian psychology to quantum physics. The explanation didn't matter; "sleeping on it" worked for him.