«I…» Her voice caught in her throat. «I see.»
«The computer will send you a check for your severance pay, plus a bonus that I feel you’ve earned,» Branley said, surprised at himself. He had not thought about a bonus until the moment the words formed on his tongue.
Elizabeth looked down at her shoes. «There’s no need for that, Mr. Hopkins.» Her voice was a shadowy whisper. «Thank you just the same.»
He thought for an instant, then shrugged. «As you wish.»
Several long moments dragged past and Branley began to feel uncomfortable. «You’re not going to cry, are you, Elizabeth?»
She looked up at him. «No,» she said, with a struggle. «No, I won’t cry, Mr. Hopkins.»
«Good.» He felt enormously relieved. «I’ll give you the highest reference, of course.»
«I won’t need your reference, Mr. Hopkins,» she said, rising to her feet. «Over the years I’ve invested some of my salary. I’ve had faith in you, Mr. Hopkins. I’m rather well off, thanks to you.»
Branley smiled at her. «That’s wonderful news, Elizabeth. I’m delighted.»
«Yes. Well, thanks for everything.»
«Good-bye, Elizabeth.»
She started for the door. Halfway there, she turned back slightly. «Mr. Hopkins…» Her face was white with anxiety. «Mr. Hopkins, when I first came into your employ, you told me that ours was strictly a business relationship. Now that that relationship is terminated… might… might we have a chance at a personal…» she swallowed visibly, «a personal… relationship?»
Branley was taken aback. «A personal relationship? The two of us?»
«Yes. I don’t work for you anymore, and I’m financially independent. Can’t we meet socially… as friends?»
«Oh. I see. Certainly. Of course.» His mind was spinning like an automobile tire in soft sand. «Eh, phone me sometime, why don’t you?»
Her complexion suddenly bloomed into radiant pink. She smiled a smile that would have melted Greenland and hurried to the door.
Branley sank back into his desk chair and stared for long minutes at the closed door, after she left. Then he told the computer, «Do not accept any calls from her. Be polite. Stall her off. But don’t put her through to me.»
For the first time since the computer had entered his life, the gray box failed to reply instantly. It hesitated long enough for Branley to sit up straight and give it a hard look.
Finally it said, «Are you certain that this is what you want to do?»
«Of course I’m certain!» Branley snapped, aghast at the effrontery of the machine. «I don’t want her whining and pleading with me. I don’t love her and I don’t want to be placed in a position where I might be moved by pity.»
«Yes, of course,» said the computer.
Branley nodded, satisfied with his own reasoning. «And while you’re at it, place a call to Nita Salomey. Her play opens at the Royale tomorrow night. Make a dinner date.»
«Very well.»
Branley went to his living room and turned on his video recorder. Sinking deep into his relaxer lounge, he was soon lost in the erotic intricacies of Nita Salomey’s latest motion picture, as it played on the wall-sized television screen.
Every morning, for weeks afterward, the computer dutifully informed Branley that Elizabeth James had phoned the previous day. Often it was more than once a day. Finally, in a fit of pique mixed with a sprinkling of guilt, Branley instructed the computer not to mention her name to him anymore. «Just screen her calls out of the morning summary,» he commanded.
The computer complied, of course. But it kept a tape of all incoming calls, and late one cold winter night, as Branley sat alone with nothing to do, too bored to watch television, too emotionally arid to call anyone, he ordered the computer to run the accumulated tapes of her phone messages.
«It always flags my sinking spirits to listen to people begging for my attention,» he told himself, with a smirk.
Pouring himself a snifter of Armagnac, he settled back in the relaxer lounge and instructed the computer to begin playing back Elizabeth’s messages.
The first few were rather hesitant, stiffly formal. «You said that I might call, Mr. Hopkins. I merely wanted to stay in contact. Please call me at your earliest convenience.»
Branley listened carefully to the tone of her voice. She was nervous, frightened of rejection. Poor child, he thought, feeling rather like an anthropologist observing some primitive jungle tribe.
Over the next several calls, Elizabeth’s voice grew more frantic, more despairing. «Please don’t shut me out of your life, Mr. Hopkins. Seven years is a long time; I can’t just turn my back on all those years. I don’t want anything from you except a little companionship. I know you’re lonely. I’m lonely too. Can’t we be friends? Can’t we end this loneliness together?»
Lonely? Branley had never thought of himself as lonely. Alone, yes. But that was the natural solitude of the superior man. Only equals can be friends.
He listened with a measure of sadistic satisfaction as Elizabeth’s calls became more frequent and more pitiful. To her credit, she never whined. She never truly begged. She always put the situation in terms of mutual affection, mutual benefit.
He had finished his second Armagnac and was starting to feel pleasantly drowsy when he realized that her tone had changed. She was warmer now, happier. There was almost laughter in her voice. And she was addressing him by his first name!
«Honestly, Branley, you would have loved to have been there. The Mayor bumped his head twice on the low doorways and we all had to stifle ourselves and try to maintain our dignity. But once he left everyone burst into an uproar!»
He frowned. What had made her change her attitude?
The next tape was even more puzzling. «Branley, the flowers are beautiful. And so unexpected! I never celebrate my birthday; I try to forget it. But all these roses! Such extravagance! My apartment’s filled with them. I wish you could come over and see them.»
«Flowers?» he said aloud. «I never sent her flowers.» He leaned forward on the lounge and peered through the doorway into his office. The gray metal box sat quietly on his desk, as it always had. «Flowers,» he muttered.
«Branley, you’ll never know how much your poetry means to me,» the next message said. «It’s as if you wrote it yourself, and especially for me. Last night was wonderful. I was floating on a cloud, just listening to your voice.»
Angrily, Branley commanded the computer to stop playing her messages. He got to his feet and strode into the office. Automatically the lights in the living room dimmed and those in the office came up.
«When was that last message from her?» he demanded of the gray box.
«Two weeks ago.»
«You’ve been reading poetry to her?»
«You instructed me to be kind to her,» said the computer. «I searched the library for appropriate responses to her calls.»
«With my voice?»
«That’s the only voice I have.» The computer sounded slightly miffed.
So furious that he was shaking, Branley sat at his desk chair and glared at the computer as if it was alive.
«Very well then,» he said at last. «I have new instruction for you. Whenever Ms. James phones, you are to tell her that I do not wish to speak to her. Do you understand me?»
«Yes.» The voice sounded reluctant, almost sullen.
«You will confine your telephone replies to simple answers, and devote your attention to running this household as it should be run, not to building up electronic romances. I want you to stop butting into my personal life. Is that clear?»
«Perfectly clear,» replied the computer, icily.
Branley retired to his bedroom. Unable to sleep, he told the computer to show an early Nita Salomey film on the television screen in his ceiling. She had never returned his calls, but at least he could watch her making love to other men and fantasize about her as he fell asleep.