Split Infinity

CHAPTER 2 - Sheen

Sheen moved into his apartment as if it were her own.

She punched the buttons of his console to order a complete light lunch of fruit salad, protein bread and blue wine.

“You evidently know about me,” Stile said as they ate. “But I know nothing of you. Why did you—want to get my attention?”

“I am a fan of the Game. I could be good at it. But I have so little time—only three years tenure remaining—I need instruction. From the best. From you. So I can be good enough—“

“To enter the Tourney,” Stile Enished. “I have the same time remaining. But there are others you could have checked. I am only tenth on my ladder—“

“Because you don’t want to have to enter the Tourney this year,” she said. “You won’t enter it until your last year of tenure, because all tenure ends when a serf enters the Tourney. But you could advance to Rung One on the Age-35 ladder any time you wished, and the top five places of each adult ladder are automatically entered in the—“

“Thank you for the information,” Stile said with gentle irony.

She overlooked it. “So you keep yourself in the second five, from year to year, low enough to be safe in case several of the top rungers break or try to vacate, high enough to be able to make your move any time you want to. You are in fact the most proficient Gamesman of our generation—“

“This is an exaggeration. I’m a jockey, not a—“

“—and I want to learn from you. I offer—“

“I can see what you offer,” Stile said, running his eyes over her body. He could do this now without embarrassment, because he had come to know her; his initial shyness was swinging to a complementary boldness. They had, after all, Gamed together. “Yet there is no way I could inculcate the breadth of skills required for serious competition, even if we had a century instead of a mere three years. Talent is inherent, and it has to be buttressed by constant application. I might be able to guide you to the fifth rung of your ladder—which one would that be?”

“Age 23 female.”

“You’re in luck. There are only three Tourney-caliber players on that ladder at present. With proper management it would be possible for a person of promise to take one of the remaining rungs. But though you gave me a good race on the Slide, I am not sure you have sufficient promise—and even if you qualified for the Tourney, your chances of progressing far in it would be vanishingly small. My chances are not good—which is why I’m still working hard at every opportunity to improve myself. Contrary to your opinion, there are half a dozen players better than I am, and another score of my general caliber. In any given year, four or five of them will enter the Tourney, while others rise in skills to renew the pool. That, combined with the vagaries of luck, gives me only one chance in ten to win. For you-“

“Oh, I have no illusions about winning!” she said.

“But if I could make a high enough rank to obtain extension of tenure, if only a year or two—“

“It’s a dream,” he assured her. “The Citizens put such prizes out as bait, but only one person in thirty-two gains even a year that way.”

“I would be completely grateful for that dream,” she said, meeting his gaze.

Stile was tempted. He knew he would not have access to a more attractive woman, and she had indeed shown promise in the Game. That athletic ability that had enabled her so blithely and lithely to change chutes would benefit her in many other types of competition.

He could have a very pleasant two years, training her.

Extremely pleasant.

That itself gave him caution. He had loved before, and lost, and it had taken years to recover completely —if he really had. Tune, he thought, with momentary nostalgia. There were ways in which Sheen resembled that former girl.

Still, what promise did he have beyond his remaining three years, anyway? All would be lost, once he left Proton. Oh, he would have a nice nest egg to establish galactic residence, and might even go to crowded Earth itself, but all he really wanted to do was remain on Proton. Since it was unlikely that he could do that, he might as well make these years count. She had mentioned that her own tenure was as short as his, which meant she would have to leave at the same time. That could be very interesting, if they had a firm relation-ship. “Tell me about yourself,” he said.

“I was born five years before my parents’ tenure ended,” Sheen said, putting down her leaf of lettuce. She had eaten delicately and quite sparingly, as many slender women did. “I obtained a position with a Lady Citizen, first as errand girl, then as nurse. I was a fan of the Game as a child, and had good aptitude, but as my employer grew older she required more care, until—“ She shrugged, and now with the pleasant tingle of the wine and the understanding they were coming to, he could appreciate the way her breasts moved with that gesture. Oh yes, it was a good offer she made—yet something nagged him.

“I have not been to a Game for seven years,” she continued, “though I have viewed it often on my employer’s screens, and rehearsed strategies and techniques constantly in private. My employer has a private exercise gym her doctor recommended; she never used it, so I did, filling in for her. Last week she died, so I have been released on holiday pending settlement of her estate and the inventory her heir is taking. Her heir is female, and healthy, so I do not think the burden will be onerous.”

It could have been quite a different matter. Stile reflected, with a young, healthy male heir. Serfs had no personal rights except termination of tenure in fit physical and mental condition, and no sane person would depart Proton even a day ahead of schedule. Serfs could serve without concern as concubines or studs for their employers—or for each other as private or public entertainment for their employers. Their bodies were the property of the Citizens. Only in privacy, without the intercession of a Citizen, did interpersonal relations between serfs become meaningful. As now.

“So you came to me,” Stile said. “To trade your favors for my favor.”

“Yes.” There needed to be no hesitancy or shame to such acknowledgment. Since serfs had no monetary or property credit, and no power during their tenure, Game-status and sex were the chief instruments of barter.

“I am minded to try it out. Shall we say for a week, then reconsider? I might become tired of you.”

Again there was no formal cause for affront; male-female interactions among serfs were necessarily shallow, though marriage was permitted and provided for. Stile had learned the hard way, long ago, not to expect permanence. Still, he expected a snappy retort to the effect that she would more likely grow tired of him first.

There was no such byplay. “As part of my rehearsal for the Game, I have studied the art of pleasing men,” Sheen said. “I am willing to venture that week.”

A fair answer. And yet, he wondered, would not an ordinary woman, even the most abused of serfs, have evinced some token ire at the callousness of his suggestion? He could have said, “We might not be right for each other.” He had phrased it most bluntly, forcing a reaction. Sheen had not reacted; she was completely matter-of-fact. Again he was nagged. Was there some catch here?

“Do you have special interests?” Stile inquired. “Music?” He hadn’t really wanted to ask that, but it had come out. He associated love with music, because of his prior experience.

“Yes, music,” Sheen agreed.

His interest quickened. “What kind?”

She shrugged again. “Any kind.”

“Vocal? Instrumental? Mechanical?”

Her brow furrowed. “Instrumental.”

“What instrument do you play?”

She looked blank.

“Oh—you just listen,” he said. “I play a number of instruments, preferring the woodwinds. All part of the Game. You will need to acquire skill in at least one instrument, or Game opponents will play you for a weakness there and have easy victories.”

“Yes, I must learn” she agreed.

What would she have done if he had gone for ART instead of PHYSICAL in their match? With her prior choice of NAKED, the intersection would have put them in song, dance or story: the a capella performances.

Perhaps she was a storyteller. Yet she did not seem to have the necessary imagination.

“Let’s do it right,” he said, rising from his meal. “I have a costume—“ He touched a button and the costume fell from a wall vent into his hand. It was a filmy negligee.

Sheen smiled and accepted it. In the privacy of an apartment, clothing was permitted, so long as it was worn discreetly. If there should be a video call, or a visitor at his door. Sheen would have to hide or rip off the clothing lest she be caught by a third party in that state and be compromised. But that only added to the excitement of it, the special, titillating naughtiness of their liaison. It was, in an unvoiced way, the closest any serf could come to emulating any Citizen.

She donned the costume without shame and did a pirouette, causing the material to fling out about her legs. Stile found this indescribably erotic. He shut down the light, so that the material seemed opaque, and the effect intensified. Oh, what clothing did for the woman, creating shadows where ordinarily there were none, making mysteries where none had been before!

Yet again, something ticked a warning in Stile’s mind. Sheen was lovely, yes—but where was her flush of delighted shame? Why hadn’t she questioned his possession of this apparel? He had it on loan, and his employer knew about it and would in due course re-member to reclaim it—but a person who did not know that, who was not aware of the liberalism of this particular employer with respect to his favored serfs, should be alarmed at his seeming hoarding of illicit clothing. Sheen had thought nothing of it.

They were technically within the law—but so was a man who thought treason without acting on it. Stile was an expert Gamesman, attuned to the nuances of human behavior, and there was something wrong with Sheen. But what was it? There was really nothing in her behavior that could not be accounted for by her years of semi-isolation while nursing her Citizen.

Well, perhaps it would come to him. Stile advanced on Sheen, and she met him gladly. None of this oh-please-don’t-hurt-me-sir, catch-me-if-you-can drama. She was not after all very much taller than he, so he had to draw her down only marginally to kiss her. Her body was limber, pliable, and the feel of the gauze between their skins pitched him into a fever of desire. Not in years had he achieved such heat so soon.

She kissed him back, her lips firm and cool. Suddenly the little nagging observations clicked into a comprehensible whole, and he knew her for what she was. Stile’s ardor began sliding into anger.

He bore her back to the couch-bed. She dropped onto it easily, as if this type of fall were commonplace for her. He sat beside her, running his hands along her thighs, still with that tantalizing fabric in place between them. He moved on to knead her breasts, doubly erotic behind the material. A nude woman in public was not arousing, but a clothed one in private ...

His hands were relaxed, gentle—but his mind was tight with coalescing ire and apprehension. He was about to trigger a reaction that could be hazardous to his health.

“I would certainly never have been able to tell,” he remarked.

Her eyes focused on him. “Tell what. Stile?”

He answered her with another question. “Who would want to send me a humanoid robot?”

She did not stiffen. “I wouldn’t know.”

“The information should be in your storage banks. I need a printout.”

She showed no emotion. “How did you discover that I was a robot?”

“Give me that printout, and I’ll give you my source of information.”

“I am not permitted to expose my data.”

“Then I shall have to report you to Game-control,” Stile said evenly. “Robots are not permitted to compete against humans unless under direct guidance by the Game Computer. Are you a Game-machine?”

“No.”

“Then I fear it will go hard with you. The record of our Game has been entered. If I file a complaint, you will be deprogrammed.”

She looked at him, still lovely though he now knew her nature. “I wish you would not do that, Stile.” How strong was her programmed wish? What form would her objection take, when pressed? It was a popular fable that robots could not harm human beings, but Stile knew better. All robots of Proton were prohibited from harming Citizens, or acting contrary to Citizens’ expressed intent, or acting in any manner that might conceivably be deleterious to the welfare of any Citizen —but there were no strictures about serfs. Normally robots did not bother people, but this was because robots simply did not care about people. If a serf interfered with a robot in the performance of its assignment, that man could get hurt.

Stile was now interfering with the robot Sheen.

“Sheen,” he said. “Short for Machine. Someone with a certain impish humor programmed you.”

“I perceive no humor,” she said.

“Naturally not. That was your first giveaway. When I proffered you a draw on the Slide, you should have laughed. It was a joke. You reacted without emotion.”

“I am programmed for emotion. I am programmed for the stigmata of love.”

The stigmata of love. A truly robotic definition! “Not the reality?”

“The reality too. There is no significant distinction. I am here to love you, if you will permit it.”

So far she had shown no sign of violence. That was good; he was not at all sure he could escape her if she attacked him. Robots varied in physical abilities, as they did in intellectual ones; it depended on their in-tended use and the degree of technology applied. This one seemed to be of top-line sophistication; that could mean she imitated the human form and nature so perfectly she had no more strength than a real girl would have. But there was no guarantee. “I must have that printout.”

“I will tell you my mission, if you will not expose my nature.”

“I can not trust your word. You attempted to deceive me with your story about nursing a Citizen. Only the printout is sure.”

“You are making it difficult. My mission is only to guard you from harm.”

“I feel more threatened by your presence than protected. Why should I need guarding from harm?”

“I don’t know. I must love you and guard you.”

“Who sent you?”

“I do not know.”

Stile touched his wall vid. “Game-control,” he said.

“Don’t do that!” Sheen cried.

“Cancel call,” Stile said to the vid. Evidently violence was not in the offing, and he had leverage. This was like a Game. “The printout.”

She dropped her gaze, and her head. Her lustrous hair fell about her shoulders, coursing over the material of the negligee. “Yes.”

Suddenly he felt sorry for her. Was she really a machine? Now he had doubts. But of course the matter was subject to verification. “I have a terminal here,” he said, touching another section of the wall. A cord came into his hand, with a multipronged plug at its end. Very few serfs were permitted such access directly—but he was one of the most privileged serfs on Proton, and would remain so as long as he was circumspect and rode horses well. “Which one?” he asked.

She turned her face away from him. Her hand went to her right ear, clearing away a lock of hair and pressing against the lobe. Her ear slid forward, leaving the socket open.

Stile plugged in the cord. Current flowed. Immediately the printout sheets appeared from the wall slot, crammed with numbers, graphs and pattern-blocks. Though he was no computer specialist. Stile’s Game training made him a fair hand at ballpark analysis of programs, and he had continuing experience doing analysis of the factors leading into given races. That was why his employer had arranged this: to enable Stile to be as good a jockey as he could be. That was extremely good, for he had a ready mind as well as a ready body.

He whistled as he studied the sheets. This was a dual-element brain, with mated digital and analog components, rather like the dual-yet-differing hemispheres of the human brain. The most sophisticated computer capable of being housed in a robot. It possessed intricate feedback circuits, enabling the machine to learn from experience and to reprogram aspects of itself, within its prime directive. It could improve its capacity as it progressed. In short, it was intelligent and conscious: machine’s nearest approach to humanity.

Quickly Stile oriented on the key section: her origin and prime directive. A robot could lie, steal and kill without conscience, but it could not violate its prime directive. He took the relevant data and fed them back to the analyzer for a summary.

The gist was simple:

NO RECORD OF ORIGIN.

DIRECTIVE: GUARD STILE FROM HARM.

SUBDIRECTTVE: LOVE STILE.

What she had told him was true. She did not know who had sent her, and she had only his safety in mind. Tempered by love, so that she would not protect him in some fashion that cost him more than it was worth. This was a necessary caution, with otherwise unfeeling robots. This machine really did care. He could have taken her word.

Stile unplugged the cord, and Sheen put her ear back into place with a certain tremor. Again she looked completely human. He had been unyielding before, when she opposed him; now he felt guilty. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had to know.”

She did not meet his gaze. “You have raped me.”

Stile realized it was true. He had taken her measure without her true consent; he had done it by duress, forcing the knowledge. There was even a physical analogy, plugging the rigid terminus of the cord into a private aperture, taking what had been hers alone. “I had to know,” he repeated lamely. “I am a very privileged serf, but only a serf. Why should anyone send an ex-pensive robot to guard a man who is not threatened? I could not afford to believe your story without verification, especially since your cover story was untrue.”

“I am programmed to react exactly as a real girl would react!” she flared. “A real girl wouldn’t claim to have been built in a machine shop, would she?”

“That’s so ...” he agreed. “But still-“

“The important part is my prime directive. Specifically, to be appealing to one man—you—and to love that man, and to do everything to help him. I was fashioned in the partial likeness of a woman you once knew, not close enough to be identifiable as such, but enough to make me attractive to your specific taste—“ “That succeeded,” he said. “I liked you the moment I saw you, and didn’t realize why.” “I came to offer you everything of which I am capable, and that is a good deal, including the allure of feminine mystery. I even donned this ridiculous shift, that no human woman would have. And you—you—“

“I destroyed that mystery,” Stile finished. “Had I had any other way to be sure—“

“Oh, I suppose you couldn’t help it. You’re a man.”

Stile glanced at her, startled again. Her face was still averted, her gaze downcast. “Are you, a robot, really being emotional?”

“I’m programmed to be!”

True. He moved around to look at her face. She turned it away again. He put his hand to her chin to lift it.

“Get away from me!” she cried.

That was some programming! “Look, Sheen. I apologize. I—“

“Don’t apologize to a robot! Only an idiot would converse with a machine.”

“Correct,” he agreed. “I acted stupidly, and now I want to make what amends are possible.”

He tried again to see her face, and again she hid it. “Damn it, look at me!” he exclaimed. His emotion was high, flashing almost without warning into embarrassment, sorrow, or anger.

“I am here to serve; I must obey,” she said, turning her eyes to him. They were bright, and her cheeks were moist. Humanoid robots could cry, of course; they could do almost anything people could do. This one had been programmed to react this way when hurt or affronted. He knew that, yet was oddly moved. She did indeed subtly resemble one he had loved. The accuracy with which she had been fashioned was a commentary on the appalling power available to the Citizens of this planet. Even the most private, subtle knowledge could be drawn from the computer registries at any time.

“You are here to guard me, not to serve me. Sheen.”

“I can only guard you if I stay with you. Now that you know what I am—“

“Why are you being so negative? I have not sent you away.”

“I was made to please you, to want to please you. So I can better serve my directive. Now I can not.”

“Why not?”

“Why do you tease me? Do you think that programmed feelings are less binding than flesh ones? That the electrochemistry of the inanimate is less valid than that of the animate? That my illusion of consciousness is any less potent than your illusion of self-determination?

I exist for one purpose, and you have prevented me from accomplishing it, and now I have no reason for existence. Why couldn’t you have accepted me as I seemed to be? I would have become perfect at it, with experience. Then it would have been real.”

“You have not answered my question.”

“You have not answered mine!”

Stile did a rapid internal shifting of gears. This was the most femalish robot he had encountered! “Very well. Sheen. I answer your questions. Why do I tease you? Answer: I am not teasing you—but if I did, it would not be to hurt you. Do I think that your programmed feelings are less valid than my mortal ones? Answer: No, I must conclude that a feeling is a feeling, whatever its origin. Some of my own feelings are short-sighted, unreasonable and unworthy; they govern me just the same. Is your illusion of consciousness less valid than my illusion of free will? Answer: No. If you think you are conscious, you must be conscious, be-cause that’s what consciousness is. The feedback of self-awareness. I don’t have much illusion about my free will. I am a serf, governed by the will of my employer. I have no doubt I am governed by a multitude of other things I seldom even notice, such as the force of gravity and my own genetic code and the dictates of society. Most of my freedom exists in my mind—which is where your consciousness does, too. Why couldn’t I accept you as you seemed to be? Because I am a skilled Gamesman, not the best that ever was, but probably destined for recognition as one of the best of my generation. I succeed not by virtue of my midget body but by virtue of my mind. By questioning, by comprehending my own nature and that of all others I encounter. When I detect an anomaly, I must discover its reason.

You are attractive, you are nice, you are the kind of girl I have held in my mind as the ideal, even to your size, for it would be too obvious for me to have a woman smaller than I am, and I don’t like being obvious in this connection. You came to me for what seemed insufficient reason, you did not laugh as you should have, you did not react quite on key. You seemed to know about things, yet when I probed for depth I found it lacking. I probed as a matter of course; it is my nature. I asked about your music, and you expressed interest, but had no specifics. That sort of thing. This is typical of programmed artificial intelligence; even the best units can approach only one percent of the human capacity, weight for weight. A well-tuned robot in a controlled situation may seem as intelligent as a man, because of its specific and relevant and instantly accessible information; a man is less efficiently organized, with extraneous memories obscuring the relevant ones, and information accessible only when deviously keyed. But the robot’s intellect is illusory, and it soon shows when those devious and unreasonable off-trails are explored. A mortal person’s mind is like a wilderness, with a tremendous volume of decaying constructs and half-understood experience forming natural harbors for wild-animal effects. A robot is disciplined, civilized; it has no vast and largely wasted reservoir of the unconscious to draw from, no spongy half-forgotten backup impression. It knows what it knows, and is ignorant where it is ignorant, with a quite sharp demarcation between. Therefore a robot is not intuitive, which is the polite way of saying that it does not frequently reach down into the maelstrom of its garbage dump and draw out serendipitous insights. Your mind was more straight-forward than mine, and that aroused my suspicion, and so I could not accept you at face value. I would not be the quality of player I am, were I given to such acceptances.”

Sheen’s eyes had widened. “You answered!” Stile laughed. It had been quite an impromptu lecture! “Again I inquire: why not?”

“Because I am Sheen-machine. Another man might be satisfied with the construct, the perfect female form; that is one reason my kind exists. But you are rooted in reality, however tangled a wilderness you may perceive it to be. The same thing that caused you to fathom my nature will cause you to reject the illusion I proffer. You want a real live girl, and you know I am not, and can never be. You will not long want to waste your time talking to me as if I were worthwhile.”

“You presume too much on my nature. My logic is other than yours. I said you were limited; I did not say you were not worthwhile.”

“You did not need to. It is typical of your nature that you are polite even to machines, as you were to the Dust Slide ticket taker. But that was brief, and public; you need no such byplay here in private. Now that I have seen you in action, discovering how much more there is to you than what the computer knows, I realize I was foolish to—“

“A foolish machine?”

“—suppose I could deceive you for any length of time. I deserved what you did to me.”

“I am not sure you deserved it. Sheen. You were sent innocently to me, to my jungle, unrealistically programmed.”

“Thank you,” she said with a certain unmetallic irony. “I did assume you would take what was offered, if you desired it, and now I know that was simplistic. What am I to do now? I have nowhere to return, and do not wish to be prematurely junked. There are many years of use left in me before my parts wear appreciably.”

“Why, you will stay with me, of course.”

She looked blank. “This is humor? Should I laugh?”

“This is serious,” he assured her.

“Without reason?”

“I am unreasonable, by your standards. But in this case I do have reason.”

She made an almost visible, almost human connection. “To be your servant? You can require that of me, just as you forced me to submit to the printout. I am at your mercy. But I am programmed for a different relationship.”

“Serf can’t have servants. I want you for your purpose.”

“Protection and romance? I am too logical to believe that. You are not the type to settle for a machine in either capacity.” Yet she looked halfway hopeful. Stile knew her facial expressions were the product of the same craftsmanship as the rest of her; perhaps he was imagining the emotion he saw. Yet it moved him.

“You presume too much. Ultimately I must go with my own kind. But in the interim I am satisfied to play the Game—at least until I can discover what threat there is to my welfare that requires a humanoid robot for protection.”

She nodded. “Yes, there is logic. I was to pose as your lady friend, thereby being close to you at all times, even during your sleep, guarding you from harm. If you pretend to accept me as such, I can to that extent fulfill my mission.”

“Why should I pretend? I accept you as you are.” “Stop it!” she cried. “You have no idea what it is like to be a robot! To be made in the image of the ideal, yet doomed always to fall short—“

Now Stile felt brief anger. “Sheen, turn off your logic and listen.” He sat beside her on the couch and took her hand. Her fingers trembled with an unmechanical disturbance. “I am a small man, smaller than almost anyone I know. All my life it has been the bane of my existence. As a child I was teased and excluded from many games because others did not believe I could per-form. My deficiency was so obvious that the others often did not even realize they were hurting my feelings by omitting me. In adolescence it was worse; no girl cared to associate with a boy smaller than herself. In adult life it is more subtle, yet perhaps worst of all. Human beings place inordinate stress on physical height. Tall men are deemed to be the leaders, short men are the clowns. In reality, small people are generally healthier than large ones; they are better coordinated, they live longer. They eat less, waste less, require less space. I benefit from all these things; it is part of what makes me a master of the Game and a top jockey. But small people are not taken seriously. My opinion is not granted the same respect as that of a large man.

When I encounter another person, and my level gaze meets his chin, he knows I am inferior, and so does everyone else, and it becomes difficult for me to doubt it myself.” “But you are not inferior!” Sheen protested. “Neither are you! Does that knowledge help?”

She was silent. “We are not dealing with an objective thing,” Stile continued. “Self-respect is subjective. It may be based on foolishness, but it is critical to a per-son’s motivation. You said I had no idea what it meant to be doomed always to fall short. But I am literally shorter than you are. Do you understand?”

“No. You are human. You have proved yourself. It would be foolish to—“

“Foolish? Indubitably. But I would give all my status in the Game, perhaps my soul itself, for one quarter meter more height. To be able to stand before you and look down at you. You may be fashioned in my ideal of woman, but I am not fashioned in my ideal of man. You are a rational creature, beneath your superficial programming; under my programming I am an irrational animal.”

She shifted her weight on the couch, but did not try to stand. Her body, under the gauze, was a marvel of allure. How patently her designer had crafted her to subvert Stile’s reason, making him blind himself to the truth in his sheer desire to possess such a woman! On another day, that might have worked. Stile had almost been fooled. “Would you exchange your small human body,” she asked, “for a large humanoid robot body?”

“No.” He did not even need to consider.

“Then you do not fall short of me.”

“This is the point I am making. I know what it is to be unfairly ridiculed or dismissed. I know what it is to be doomed to be less than the ideal, with no hope of improvement. Because the failure is, at least in part, in my ideal. I could have surgery to lengthen my body. But the wounds are no longer of the body. My body has proved itself. My soul has not.”

“I have no soul at all.”

“How do you know?”

Again she did not answer. “I know how you know,” he said. “You know because you know. It is inherent in your philosophy. Just as I know I am inferior. Such knowledge is not subject to rational refutation. So I do understand your position. I understand the position of all the dispossessed. I empathize with all those who hunger for what they can not have. I long to help them, knowing no one can help them. I would trade every-thing I am or might be for greater physical height, knowing how crazy that desire is, knowing it would not bring me happiness or satisfaction. You would trade your logic and beauty for genuine flesh and blood and bone. Your machine invulnerability for human mortality. You are worse off than I; we both know that. Therefore I feel no competition in your presence, as I would were you human. A real girl like you would be above me; I would have to compete to prove myself, to bring her down, to make her less than my ideal, so that I could feel worthy of her. But with you—“

“You can accept me as I am—because I am a robot,” Sheen said, seeming amazed. “Because I am less than you.”

“Now I think we understand each other.” Stile put his arm about her and brought her in for a kiss. “If you want me on that basis—“

She drew away. “You’re sorry for me! You raped me and now you’re trying to make me like it.”

He let her go. “Maybe I am. I don’t really know all my motives. I won’t hold you here if you don’t want to stay. I’ll leave you strictly alone if you do stay, and want it that way. I’ll show you how to perfect your human role, so that others will not fathom your nature the way I did. I’ll try to make it up to you—“

She stood. “I’d rather be junked.” She crossed to the vid screen and touched the button. “Game-control, please.”

Stile launched himself from the couch and almost leaped through the air to her. He caught her about the shoulder and bore her back. “Cancel call!” he yelled. Then they both fetched up against the opposite wall.

Sheen’s eyes stared into his, wide. “You care,” she said. “You really do.”

Stile wrapped both arms about her and kissed her savagely.

“I almost believe you,” she said, when speaking was possible.

“To hell with what you believe! You may not want me now, but I want you. I’ll rape you literally if you make one move for that vid.”

“No, you won’t. It’s not your way.”

She was right. “Then I ask you not to turn yourself in,” he said, releasing her again. “I—“ He broke off, choking, trapped by a complex pressure of emotions.

“Your wilderness jungle—the wild beasts are coming from their lairs, attacking your reason,” Sheen said.

“They are,” he agreed ruefully. “I abused you with the printout. I’m sorry. I do believe in your conscious-ness, in your feeling. In your right to privacy and self-respect. I beg your forgiveness. Do what you want, but don’t let my callousness ruin your—“ He couldn’t finish. He couldn’t say “life” and couldn’t find another word.

“Your callousness,” she murmured, smiling. Then her brow furrowed. “Do you realize you are crying, Stile?”

He touched his cheek with one finger, and found it wet. “I did not realize. I suppose it is my turn.”

“For the feelings of a machine,” she said.

“Why the hell not?”

She put her arms around him. “I think I could love you, even unprogrammed. That’s another illusion, of course.”

“Of course.”

They kissed again. It was the beginning.