Mockingbird

Spofforth

Walking up Fifth Avenue at midnight, Spofforth begins to whistle. He does not know the name of the tune nor does he care to know; it is a complicated tune, one he whistles often when alone. He is naked to the waist and barefoot, dressed only in khaki trousers; he can feel the worn old paving beneath his feet. Although he walks up the middle of the broad avenue he can see patches of grass and tall weeds on either side of him where the sidewalk has long before been cracked and broken away, awaiting repairs that will never be made. From these patches Spofforth hears a chorus of diverse clickings and wing rubbings of insects. The sounds make him uneasy, as they always do this time of year, in spring. He puts his big hands into his trouser pockets. Then, uncomfortable, he takes them out again and begins to jog, huge and light-footed, athletic, up toward the massive form of the Empire State Building.

The doorway to the building had eyes and a voice; its brain was the brain of a moron—single-minded and insensitive. “Closed for repairs,” the voice said to Spofforth as he approached.

“Shut up and open,” Spofforth said. And then, “I am Robert Spofforth. Make Nine.”

“Sorry, sir,” the door said. “Couldn’t see…”

“Yes. Open up. And tell the express elevator to be down for me.”

The door was silent for a moment. Then it said, “Elevator’s not working, sir.”

“Shit,” Spofforth said. And then, “I’ll walk up.”

The door opened and Spofforth walked in and headed across the dark lobby toward the stairway. He muted the pain circuits in his legs and lungs, and began to climb. He was no longer whistling; his elaborate mind had become fixed narrowly now upon his annual intent.

When he reached the edge of the platform, as high above the city as one could stand, Spofforth sent the command to the nerves in his legs and the pain surged into them. He wobbled slightly from it, high and alone in the black night, with no moon above him and the stars dun. The surface underfoot was smooth, polished; once years before Spofforth had almost slipped. Immediately he had thought, in disappointment, If only that would happen again, at the edge. But it did not.

He walked to within two feet of the platform’s limit, and with no mental signal, no volition, no wish for it to happen, his legs stopped moving and he found himself, as always, immobilized, facing Fifth Avenue uptown, over a thousand dark feet above its hard and welcome surface. Then he urged his body forward in sad and grim desperation, focusing his will upon the desire to fall forward, merely to lean his strong and heavy body, his factory-made body, out, away from the building, away from life. Inwardly he began to scream for movement, picturing himself tumbling in slow motion, gracefully and surely, to the street below. Yearning for that.

But his body was not—as he knew it would not be—his own. He had been designed by human beings; only a human being could make him die. Then he screamed aloud, throwing his arms out at his sides, bellowing in fury over the silent city. But he could not move forward.

Spofforth stood there, alone on top of the tallest building in the world, immobilized, for the rest of the June night. Occasionally the lights of a thought bus would be visible, slightly larger than stars, below him, moving slowly up and down the avenues of an empty city. There were no lights on in the buildings.

And then, as the sun began to illuminate the sky over the East River to his right and over Brooklyn, to which no bridges ran, his frustration began to ebb. Had he been given tear ducts he would, then, have found the release of tears; but he could not cry. The light became brighter; he could see the outlines of the empty buses below him. He could see a tiny Detection car moving up Third Avenue. And then the sun, pale in the June sky, burst up over an empty Brooklyn and sparkled on the water of the river as fresh as at the dawn of time. Spofforth took a step backward, away from the death he sought and had been seeking all his long life, and the anger that had possessed him began to ebb with the rising sun. He would go on living, and he could bear it.

He climbed down the dusty staircase slowly at first. But by the time he reached the lobby bis footsteps were brisk, self-assured, full of artificial life.

As he left the building he told the speaker on the doorway, “Don’t let the elevator be repaired. I prefer the climb.”

“Yes, sir,” the door said.

Outside, the sun was shining brightly and there were a few humans on the street. An old black woman in a faded blue dress happened to brush Spofforth’s elbow, looked up dreamily at his face. When she saw his marking as a Make Nine robot she immediately averted her eyes and mumbled, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sir.” She stood near him, at a loss. She had probably never seen a Make Nine before and only knew about them from her early training.

“Go on,” he said gently. “It’s all right.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. She fumbled in her dress pocket and pulled out a sopor and took it. Then she turned and shuffled off.

Spofforth walked briskly, in sunshine, back down toward Washington Square, toward New York University, where he worked. His body never tired. Only his mind—his elaborate, labyrinthine, and lucid mind—understood the meaning of fatigue. His mind was always, always tired.

Spofforth’s metal brain had been constructed and his body grown from living tissue at a time, long before, when engineering was in decline but me making of robots was a high art. That art too would soon decline and wither; Spofforth himself had been its highest achievement. He was the last of a series of a hundred robots designated Make Nine, the strongest and most intelligent creatures ever made by man. He was also the only one programmed to stay alive despite his own wishes.

A technique existed for making a recording of every neural pathway, every learning pattern of an adult human brain and transferring that recording to the metal brain of a robot. This technique had been used only for the Make Nine series; all of the robots in that series had been equipped with altered copies of the living brain of a single man. That man was a brilliant and melancholy engineer named Paisley—although Spofforth was never to know that. The network of information bits and interconnections that made up Paisley’s brain had been recorded on magnetic tapes and stored in a vault in Cleveland. What happened to Paisley after his mind was copied no one ever knew. His personality, his imagination, and his learning had all been recorded on tapes when he was forty-three, and afterward the man was forgotten.

The tapes were edited. The personality was removed from them as much as was possible without harming the “useful” functions. Just what was “useful” about a mind had been determined by engineers less imaginative than Paisley himself. The memory of the life was erased, and with it much of the learning, although the syntax and vocabulary of English remained on the tapes. They contained, even after editing, a near-perfect copy of an evolutionary miracle: a human brain. Some unwanted things from Paisley remained. The ability to play the piano was in the tapes, but needed a body with arms and hands to be manifest. But when the body was made there would be no piano for it to play.

Unwanted by the engineers who had made the recording, but unavoidable, were fragments of old dreams, yearnings, anxieties. There was no way to rid the tapes of these without damaging other functions.

The recording was transferred electronically to a silvery ball, nine inches in diameter, made up of thousands of layers of nickel-vanadium, spun and shaped by automatic equipment. The ball was placed in the head of a body cloned especially for it.

The body was grown carefully in a steel tank, at what had once been an automobile plant in Cleveland. The result was perfect— tall, powerful, athletic, beautiful. It was a black man in the prime of life, with fine muscles, powerful lungs and heart, kinky black hair, clear eyes, a beautiful, thick-lipped mouth, and large, strong hands.

Some human things had been altered: the aging process had been programmed to stop at the physical development of a thirty-year-old—which was where the body had arrived after four years in the steel tank. It was equipped to control its own pain responses, and was, within limits, self-regenerating. It could, for instance, continue to grow new teeth, or new fingers or toes, as needed. It would never go bald or develop faulty vision or cataracts or thickened arteries or arthritis. It was, as the genetic engineers were fond of saying, an improvement upon the work of God. Since none of the engineers believed there was a God, however, their self-praise was unsound.

Spofforth’s body had no reproductive organs. “To avoid distractions,” one of the engineers said. The earlobes on each side of the magnificent head were jet black to signify to any human being who might be awed by this imitation man that he was, after all, only a robot.

Like the Frankenstein monster, he was given active life by electrical shock; he emerged from his tank fully grown and able to talk, a bit thickly at first. In the vast and cluttered factory room where he was brought into awareness his dark eyes looked around him with excitement and life. He was on a stretcher when he first experienced the power of consciousness enveloping his nascent being like a wave, becoming his being. His constricted throat gagged and then cried out at the force of it—at the force of being in the world.

He was named Spofforth by one of the few men who still knew how to read. The name came, at random, from an ancient Cleveland telephone directory: Robert Spofforth. He was a Make Nine robot, the most sophisticated single piece of equipment ever to be fashioned by human ingenuity.

Part of his first year’s training sent him to monitoring the hallways and doing minor chores at a dormitory school for human beings. It was a place where the young were taught the ways of their world: Inwardness, Privacy, Self-fulfillment, Pleasure. It was there that he saw the girl in the red coat and fell in love.

Through that winter and through the early spring the girl always wore a scarlet coat with a black velvet collar, as black as anthracite, as black as her hair against her white skin. Her red lipstick matched her coat. In those days almost no one wore lipstick anymore and it was a wonder that she even owned some. She looked beautiful wearing it. When Spofforth first saw her, on his third day at the dormitory compound, she was almost seventeen. His mind photographed her instantly and for all time. This picture was to become a major part of the sadness that began, in springtime, in June, to settle deeply into his manufactured and potent being.

By the time he was a year old Spofforth understood quantum mechanics, robotic engineering, and the history of state-owned corporations in North America—all taught to him by audio-visuals and by robot tutors—but he did not know how to read. Nor did he know anything about human sexuality, not consciously; although there were dim yearnings in what once would have been called his heart. Sometimes when he was alone and in darkness, his stomach would flutter for a moment disturbingly. He was beginning to know that in him somewhere was a buried life, a life of feelings. On the first warm evenings of his first June he began to be seriously disquieted by it. Walking from one dormitory building to another, late at night, he would hear the sounds of katydids in the trees in the warm Ohio evening and there would be a strange, uncomfortable pressure in his chest. He worked hard at the dormitories, doing much menial work for what was called “training”; but the work seldom really occupied his attention and melancholy had begun to fall on his spirit.

Some of the Make Four workers would break down occasionally; there never seemed to be enough repair equipment to keep up with minor malfunctions. A few old men were kept around to fill in when that happened. One of these was a derelict named Arthur, who usually smelled of synthetic gin and who never wore socks. He always spoke to Spofforth, in a partly friendly, partly mocking way, when they would pass each other in the dormitory hallways or on one of the gravel paths outside the buildings. Once, while Spofforth was emptying ashtrays in the cafeteria and Arthur was sweeping up, Arthur stopped working, leaned on his broom, and said, “Bob,” and Spofforth looked up from his work. “Bob,” Arthur said, “you’re a moody one. Didn’t know they made moody robots.”

Spofforth was unsure whether he was being teased or not. He continued carrying a stack of plastic ashtrays, filled with the morning’s array of marijuana butts, to the garbage can in the corner of the big room. The students had left a short time before for a televised lecture on yoga.

“Never saw a sad robot before,” Arthur said. “Is that because of those black ears?”

“I’m a Make Nine robot,” Spofforth said defensively. He was still very young, and conversations with humans could make him uneasy.

“Nine!” Arthur said. “That’s pretty high, isn’t it? Hell the Andy that runs this school is only a Seven.”

“Andy?” Spofforth said, holding the pile of ashtrays.

“Yeah, android. Andys is what we called you things—you guys —when I was a kid. Weren’t so many of you then. Weren’t so smart either.”

“Do you mind that? That I’m smart?”

“No,” Arthur said. “Shit no. People are so fucking dumb these days it makes you want to cry.” He looked away, and then gave a little push to his broom. “Smart is smart. I’m glad there’s some around somewhere.” He stopped sweeping and made a loose gesture around the big empty room as though the students were still there. “I wouldn’t want any of those dumb illiterates to be running the show when they get out of here.” His wrinkled face was rilled with contempt. “Hypnotized freaks. Jack-offs. They ought to put ’em in a coma and feed ’em pills.”

Spofforth said nothing. Something in him was drawn toward the old man—some tiny hint of kinship. But he had no feelings about the young humans who were being trained and acculturated in this place.

He had no conscious feelings about them, of the usually vacant-eyed, slow-moving, and silent groups of them, going quietly from class to class or sitting alone in the Privacy rooms smoking dope and watching abstract patterns on their wall-sized television sets and listening to mindless, hypnotic music from speakers. But in his mind there was almost always the image of one; the girl in the red coat. She had worn that ancient coat all winter and still wore it on spring nights. It was not the only thing different about her. There was sometimes a look on her face, flirtatious, narcissistic, vain, that was different from the rest of them. They were all told to develop themselves “individually” but they all looked the same and acted the same, with their quiet voices and their expressionless faces. She swung her hips when she walked, and sometimes she laughed, loudly, when everyone else was quiet, absorbed in herself. Her skin was as white as milk and her hair coal black.

Spofforth thought of her often. At times, seeing her on her way to a class, surrounded by others but alone, he wanted to walk over to her and touch her gently, just place his big hand on her shoulder and hold it there for a while, feeling the warmth of it. Sometimes it seemed to him that she was watching him from beneath lowered eyes, amused, laughing at him. But they never spoke.

“Hell,” Arthur was saying. “You robots’ll be running everything in another thirty years. People can’t do shit for themselves anymore.”

“I am being trained to run corporations,” Spofforth said.

Arthur looked at him sharply, and then he began to laugh. “By emptying ashtrays?” he said. “Shit!” He began sweeping again, pushing the big broom vigorously down the Permoplastic floor. “Didn’t know you could fool a goddamn robot. And a Make Nine at that.”

Spofforth stood there holding the ashtrays for a minute, looking at him. No one is fooling me, he thought. I have my life to live.

It was a June night about a week after the conversation with Arthur that Spofforth was walking by the Audio-Visual Building under the moonlight and heard a rustling noise from behind the dense bushes that grew untended by the building. There was the groan of a male voice, and then more rustling.

Spofforth stopped and listened. Something was moving, more quietly now. He turned, walked a few steps until he was standing up against a tall bush and then pushed it quietly aside. And when, suddenly, he saw what was happening on the other side, he froze and just stood there, staring.

On her back, behind the bush, lay the girl, with her dress pulled up beyond her navel. A pinkish, naked, chubby young man was kneeling astride her; Spofforth could see a cluster of brown moles on the pink skin between his shoulder blades. He could see the girl’s pubic hair under the man’s thigh—curly hair, jet black against her pure white legs and white buttocks, as black as the hair on her head, as black as the little collar of the red coat on which she lay.

She saw him, and her face went grim with disgust. She spoke to him, for the first and last time ever. “Get out of here, robot,” she said. “Fucking robot. Leave us alone.”

Spofforth, a hand clamped on bis cloned heart, turned and walked away. It was there he learned a thing he was to know for the rest of his long life; he did not really want to live. He had been cheated—horribly cheated—of a real, human life; something in him rebelled against living the life that had been thrust upon him.

He saw the girl again a few times. She avoided his eyes completely. Not out of shame, he knew, since there was no shame for them in sex. “Quick sex is best” was what they were taught, and they believed it and practiced it.

He was relieved to be transferred from the dormitory to a more responsible job deciding the distribution patterns of synthetic dairy products, in Akron. From there he was moved to the production of small automobiles, presiding over the making of the last few thousand private cars ever to be driven by a once car-infatuated population. When that ended he became Director of the Corporation that manufactured thought buses, the sturdy eight-passenger vehicles made for an ever-dwindling human population. Then he became Director of Population Control, being transferred to New York for this, working in an office on top of a thirty-two-story building, watching over the aging computers that kept a daily census and adjusted human fertility rates accordingly. It was a tiresome job, presiding over equipment that was forever breaking down, trying to find ways of repairing computers that no human any longer knew how to repair and that no robots had been programmed to understand. Eventually he was given another job: Dean of Faculties at New York University. The computer that had served to direct that institution had ceased functioning; it became Spofforth’s job, as a Make Nine, to replace it and to make the mostly minor choices that running a university required.

There had been, he came to find out, a hundred Make Nines cloned, and animated with copies of the same original human mind. He was the last, and special adjustments were made in the synapses of his own particular metallic brain to prevent what had happened to the others of his series: they had been committing suicide. Some had fused their brains into black shapelessness with high-voltage welding equipment; some had swallowed corrosives. A few had gone completely insane before being destroyed by humans, freaking out madly, destructively, rampaging down city streets at midnight screaming obscenities. Using a real human brain as a model for a sophisticated robot had been an experiment. The experiment had been judged a failure, and no more were made. The factories still turned out moron robots, and a few Make Sevens and Make Eights, to take over from the humans more and more of the functions of government and education and medicine and law and planning and manufacturing; but all these had synthetic, nonhuman brains, without a flicker of emotion, of inwardness, of self-consciousness in them. They were merely machines—clever, human-looking, well-made machines—and they did what they were supposed to do.

Spofforth had been designed to live forever, and he had been designed to forget nothing. Those who made the design had not paused to consider what a life like that might be like.

The girl in the red coat grew old and fat and had sex with ten dozen men and had a few babies and drank too much beer and led a trivial, purposeless life and lost her beauty. And at the end of it she died and was buried and forgotten. And Spofforth went on, youthful, superbly healthy, beautiful, seeing her at seventeen long after she had forgotten, as a middle-aged woman, the sexy, flirtatious girl she had once been. He saw her and loved her and he wanted to die. And some heedless human engineer had even made that impossible for him.

The University Provost and the Dean of Studies were waiting for him when he returned from his June night alone.

The duller of the two was the provost. His name was Carpenter and he wore a brown Synlon suit and nearly worn-out sandals and his belly and flanks trembled visibly in the tight suit as he walked. He was standing near Spofforth’s big teakwood desk, smoking a joint, when the robot came in and walked briskly toward him. Carpenter stood nervously aside while Spofforth seated himself.

After a moment Spofforth looked at him—not just a bit to the right of him in the way that Mandatory Politeness required, but directly at him. “Good morning,” Spofforth said, in his strong, controlled voice. “Is something wrong?”

“Well…” Carpenter said, “I’m not sure.” He seemed disturbed by the question. “What do you think, Perry?”

Perry, the Dean of Studies, rubbed his nose with his forefinger. “Somebody called, Dean Spofforth. On the University Line. Called twice.”

“Oh?” Spofforth said. “What did he want?”

“He wants to talk to you,” Perry said. “About a job. A summer teaching…”

Spofforth looked at him. “Yes?”

Perry went on nervously, his eyes avoiding Spofforth’s. “What he wants to do is something that I couldn’t understand on the telephone. It’s a new thing—something he said he had discovered a yellow or two ago.” He looked around him until his gaze found that of the fat man in the brown suit. “What was it he said, Carpenter?”

“Reading?” Carpenter said.

“Yes,” Perry said. “Reading. He said he could do reading. Something about words. He wants to teach it.”

Spofforth sat up at the word. “Someone has learned to read?”

The men looked away, embarrassed at the surprise in Spofforth’s voice.

“Did you record the conversation?” Spofforth asked.

They looked at one another. Finally, Perry spoke. “We forgot,” he said.

Spofforth suppressed his annoyance. “Did he say he would call back?”

Perry looked relieved. “Yes, he did, Dean Spofforth. He said he would try to establish a connection with you.”

“All right,” Spofforth said. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” Perry said, fobbing his nose again. “The usual curriculum BB’s. Three suicides among the student body. And there are plans recorded somewhere for the closing down of the East Whig of Mental Hygiene; but none of the robots could find them.” Perry . seemed pleased to be able to report a failure among the staff robots. “None of the Make Sixes knew anything about them, sir.”

“That’s because I have them, Dean Perry,” Spofforth said. He opened his desk drawer and took out one of the little steel balls— the BB’s, they were called—that were used to make voice recordings. He held it out to Perry. “Play this into a Make Seven. He’ll know what to do about the Mental Hygiene classrooms.”

Perry, somewhat shamefaced, took the recording and left. Carpenter followed him out of the room. When they were gone Spofforth sat at his desk for a while, wondering about the news of the man who said he could read. He had heard of reading often enough when he was young, and knew that it had died out long before. He had seen books—very ancient things. There were still a few of them left undestroyed in the University Library.

Spofforth’s office was big, and very pleasant. He had decorated it himself, with prints of shore birds and with a carved oak sideboard he had taken from a demolished museum. On the sideboard was a row of small models of Robotic Engineering, roughly showing the history of anthropoid forms that had been used in the development of the art. The earliest, on the far left, was of a wheeled creature with a cylindrical body and four arms—very early, and somewhere between a servomechanism and an autonomous mechanical being. The model was made of Permoplastic and was about six inches tall. The robot had been, during its brief span of usefulness, called a Wheelie; none had been made for centuries.

To the right of the Wheelie was a more manlike shape, somewhat close to that of a contemporary moron robot. The statuettes became more detailed, more human, as they proceeded from left to right, until they concluded with a miniature of Spofforth himself—sleek, entirely human in appearance, poised on the balls of his feet and with his eyes, even in the model, seeming alive.

A red light began to blink on Spofforth’s desk. He pressed a button and said, “Spofforth here.”

“My name is Bentley, Dean Spofforth,” the voice on the other end said. “Paul Bentley. I’m calling from Ohio.”

“Are you the one who can read?” Spofforth said.

“Yes,” the voice said. “I taught myself how. I can read.”

The great ape sat wearily on the overturned side of a bus. The city was deserted.

At the center of the screen a white vortex appeared and began to enlarge and whirl. When it stopped it had filled more than half the screen. It became clear that it was the front page of a newspaper, with a huge headline.

Spofforth stopped the projector with the headline on the screen. “Read that,” he said.

Bentley cleared his throat nervously. “Monster Ape Terrifies City,” he read.

“Good,” Spofforth said. He started the projector again.

The rest of the film had no written words on it. They watched it in silence, through the ape’s final destructive rampage, his pathetic failure to be able to express his love, on through to his death as he fell, as though floating, from the impossibly tall building to the wide and empty street below.

Spofforth threw the switch that brought the lights back on in his office and made the bay window transparent again. The office was now no longer dark, no longer a projection room. Outside, amid the bright flowers of Washington Square, a circle of elderly graduate students sat on the unkempt grass in their denim robes. Their faces were vacant. The sun was high, distant, in the June sky. Spofforth looked at Bentley.

“Dean Spofforth,” Bentley said, “will I be able to teach the course?”

Spofforth watched him thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, “No. I’m sorry. But we should not teach reading at this university.”

Bentley stood up awkwardly. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I thought…”

“Sit down, Professor Bentley,” Spofforth said. “I believe we can use this skill of yours, for the summer.”

Bentley seated himself. He was clearly nervous; Spofforth knew that his own presence was overwhelming.

Spofforth leaned back in his chair, stretched, and smiled at Bentley amiably. “Tell me,” he asked. “How did you learn to read?”

The man blinked at him a moment. Then he said, “From cards. Reading cards. And four little books: First Reader, and Roberto and Consuela and Their Dog Biff, and…”

“Where did you get such things?” Spofforth asked.

“It was strange,” Bentley said. “The university has a collection of ancient porno films. I was trying to cull material for a course, when I came upon a sealed box of old film. With it were the four little books and the set of cards. When I played the film it was not porno at all. It showed a woman talking to children in a classroom. There was a black wall behind her and she would make marks on it that were white. For example, she would make what I later learned was the word ‘woman,’ and then the children would all say ‘woman’ together. She did the same for ‘teacher’ and ‘tree’ and ‘water’ and ‘sky.’ I remembered just having looked through the cards and seeing a picture of a woman. It had the same marks she had made under it. There were more pictures, more white marks on the black wall, more words spoken by the teacher and by the class.” Bentley blinked, remembering. “The teacher was wearing a blue dress and her hair was white. She seemed to smile all the time…”

“And then you did what?” Spofforth said.

“Yes.” Bentley shook his head, as if trying to shake away the memory. “I played the film again, and then again. I was fascinated by it, by something that was going on in it that I felt was… was…” He stopped, helpless for a word.

“Important?” Spofforth asked.

“Yes. Important.” Bentley looked at Spofforth’s eyes for a brief moment, against the rule of Mandatory Politeness. Then he looked away, toward the window, outside of which the stoned graduate students still sat silent, their heads nodding occasionally.

“And then?” Spofforth said.

“I played the film over, more times than I could count. Slowly I began to realize, as though I had known it all along but hadn’t known that I knew it, that the teacher and the class were looking at the marks and saying words that were represented by the marks. The marks were like pictures. Pictures of words. A person could look at them and say the words aloud. Later I was to learn that you could look at the marks and hear the words silently. The same words and words like them were in the books I had found.”

“And you learned to understand other words?” Spofforth said. His voice was neutral, quiet.

“Yes. That took a long time. I had to realize that the words were made of letters. Letters made sounds that were always the same. I spent days and days at it. I did not want to stop. There was a pleasure in finding the things that the books could say within my mind…“ He looked down at the floor. ”I did not stop until I knew every word in the four books. It was only later, when I found three more books, that I discovered that what I was doing was called ‘reading.’“ He became silent and then, after a few moments, looked shyly up toward Spofforth’s face.

Spofforth stared at him for a long moment, and then nodded his head slightly. “I see,” he said. “Bentley, have you ever heard of silent films?”

“Silent films?” Bentley said. “No.”

Spofforth smiled slightly. “I don’t think many people have heard of them. They’re very ancient. A great many were found recently, during a demolition.”

“Oh?” Bentley said politely, not understanding.

“The thing about silent films, Professor Bentley,” Spofforth said slowly, “is that the speeches of the actors in them are not spoken but written.” He smiled again, gently. “To be understood, they must be read.”