‘As you see, I’ve been turning the problem over, consulting the old stories…’
‘And?’
‘And I’ve decided to vote against this robot.’
Chee! Chee! ‘Thank God. We have to take sides. Those of us who don’t want to be ciphers have to stand up and be counted. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?’
For the first time, her eyes blinked. ‘But I had to explain! You see, I believe in baring the soul.’
‘Bearing the — ?’
‘I even talk to my food and drink, as you must have noticed.’
‘Dot at all,’ he lied, and hid his nose in a handkerchief.
She sighed. ‘I can’t help feeling that respect for life — even the life of your cold virus there — is paramount. Of course we must take life, we eat food, we destroy germs. But can we not at least apologize for our murders?’ So saying, she took up the olive from her martini and spoke to it quietly: ‘Little olive, I mean you no harm, but my body needs nourishment. For one day soon, my body will go to replenish the earth, to feed new olive trees…’
Rogers looked away, embarrassed, and caught the eye of a fat, suntanned stranger at the bar, who had turned from the television to watch Dr Hannah. ‘Uh, I’ve got to go home, nurse this cold, so…’
She put down the olive and checked her watch. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll stick around. Have to kill an hour before I meet my son for dinner. Never see him, since he moved into that fra — But you have your own problems, bless you.’
Beanie’s Bar was beginning to fill up with the early evening crowd. Rogers had to squeeze his way through an animated discussion of Ruritania (one speaker suffered from halitosis), avoid the non-university drunk and jostle through other conversations:
‘…the liberry, but like when I ast for Sense and Sensibility they brung me this novel. This, yeah, by some other J. Austin, only with a e, figure that…’
‘…Jungian econ…’
‘…this machine heresy, was it?’
‘…Barbara Altar for one…’
The juke box piped him out with a mournful, if not quite coherent song:
Near the door someone said, ‘Right in front of the Student Union? No kidding, who was he anyway?’
‘Just some freshman with a GPA problem, happens every year…’
The spot vacated by Rogers was still warm when a plump stranger in Western clothes slid into it. He grinned at Dr Hannah out of his deep tan.
‘Olives,’ he said. ‘Thought they went out with the ol’ Walther.’
‘Really?’ She focused on him with difficulty.
‘O’Smith.’ He extended a thick left hand on which she noticed a turquoise ring, almost Navaho. But fake, like the grin.
‘Prometheus invented the ring,’ she said, and belched. ‘Did you know — sorry — that? Out of his chains.’
‘No foolin’?’ A theatrical sneer. ‘Look, can we talk here?’
‘Why not?’ Jane Hannah needed at least two more martinis before she could face her son, and if this absurd stranger wanted to fill the interval with chatter, olives going out of style, well why not?
‘Usually I work alone,’ he said. ‘I run a one-man show.’
‘Indeed?’ Show-business, a rodeo perhaps. It seemed to explain his outlandish clothes, the showy ring, the stock villain’s sneer. What did he want, money?
‘But I guess if you wanted to back my play—’
She put up a hand. ‘You’re wasting your time. I don’t contribute to — no thanks. “…I’m no angel…”, as the saying goes.’
‘Good enough.’ He seemed unruffled. ‘Good enough. Fact is, I get a lot of satisfaction out of workin’ alone, you know? Boy, when you see their faces — when they realize what’s comin’ off—’ He chuckled. ‘Makes it all worth while.’
‘I’ll bet. But do you usually see their faces? I thought—’
Even when you don’t, you still know what they’re thinkin’. Boy howdy! It’s like real communication! I mean in everyday life you just never get that close to nobody. Real communication.’
‘I know just what you mean,’ she said. Nice to meet someone who liked his work, even if he did carry the offstage villainy too far. Just now he was casting a furtive glance over his shoulder, where the bearded boy was propped up by the girl in orange. Allbright, his chin sinking towards the table, told Dora, ‘Funny thing is, I met him just the other day. On the Mall.’
‘Met who?’
‘This kid I was just telling you about. Danny. The Bugleboy—’
‘But that was half an hour ago — are you all right?’
‘No but listen, listen, he’s still crazy he — I asked if he was still in computers and he sort of grinned and said, “Into, yes, yes, yes, you could say that, into computers, yes, yes…’”
‘I don’t know why you take that stuff and drink on top—’
‘Yes yes, nodding and grinning like a fucking guru computer got all the answers yes yes… only he’s dead inside, ghost in the machine you know even his kid he even his kid he…’
He came to rest with his ear in the ashtray, while the man in the hunting cap looked over and turned away to his drink, muttering, ‘College boys! College boys!’
A tiresome boy declared himself once more a Manichee to the girl in the leg-cast, who nodded, though listening to someone else explain how Lady Godiva invented the rosary. The juke box, now muffled by the wall of bodies, sang:
Dr Hannah raised her glass to toast the departing O’Smith.
‘Break a leg,’ she said.
He winked. ‘For you, anything.’ He pushed through the crowd and out into the night, which was nearly as dark and empty as the piano bar on the other side of town where two short-haired men waited to meet someone called O’Smith.
Allbright slept on while Dora kept watch. Suddenly he sat up, rubbing at the ash on his cheek. ‘He looked burned out, coke or, I don’t know, burned out. What was I — oh yeah, he’s got a kid, Roderick, he even treats him like a damned machine.’
‘Is this still Bugleboy?’
‘Yeah listen, he was carrying this doll, I asked him if he had any kids, he said, Just Roderick. “Oh, this?” he says, holding up the doll. “It’s for testing Roderick. Testing his pattern-recognition threshold.” Might have been talking about a goddamned piece of equipment, you know? Cold, cold and — so when I asked how old the boy was, what do you think? He said, “Doesn’t matter. I’m getting rid of him”.’
‘What did he mean, getting rid—’
‘Wants to ship him off to some foster home, even asked me for an address.’ He picked at his beard absent-mindedly, disentangling a cigarette butt. ‘Felt like telling him to ask his computer pals if he wants a favour, only — what’s that cop doing in here?’
A campus patrolman stood by the door, looking around, while the crowd parted to let him through. Out of habit, one or two people dropped things on the floor. Finally the lawman saw Dr Hannah’s white hair and came over to her.
‘Mrs Hannah? Mrs Jane Hannah?’
‘Doctor Hannah, if you don’t mind.’
Awkwardly he bent and whispered to her that her son was dead. Awkwardly he supported her as she rose and wobbled to the door, blind to faces turning with momentary curiosity, deaf to the thumping of the juke box…