Only Human (15 page)

 

Maria looked at the screen like a cat watching a mouse and wondering what kind of tin-opener it would need to open it. She wasn't entirely sure she'd got the hang of being human herself; being present at the birth of a sentient limited company wasn't something she could easily take in her stride as being one of those things that just happen. Presumably it was quite rare. For all she knew, you could go weeks at a time and not see one.

Sorry,
the screen said.
No offence. I thought you were the human; you know, that dolly-bird type with the laminated fingernails and vacant expression sitting just underneath you.

‘That's me too.'

Maria shrugged. ‘I think so,' she said. ‘But I'm new at this game myself.' She smiled. ‘I think we're both in pretty much the same boat. We can learn together, if you like.'

‘Funny you should use that particular word,' Maria replied. ‘Fun. Or rather happiness, as in pursuit of, I get the impression that's what we're here for.'

Maria nodded. ‘Seems to be. There's no other possible explanation. You're the clever one, you think about it.'

All over the world, KIC computers registered a massive power surge as countless millions of bytes tried to puzzle it out.
Maybe you're right,
the screen mused.

‘I'm sure of it.'

Now then, let's consider this properly.
The screen turned up its brightness a little, and covered itself with a dazzling display of graphics, which flicked by so fast that all Maria got was a bewildering impression of lights, shapes and primary colours.

‘Is that you thinking?' she asked. ‘All the pictures.'

‘On the contrary, I think that was a compliment. You were saying we're far better at getting a message across than mere words. Or you can say things in pictures that words can't express. Or maybe it's just because you're only a few minutes old and haven't even got as far as Peter-and-Jane books yet.'

‘Getting in the sense of writing it down? No, sorry.'

Maria frowned. ‘Stick to the words,' she replied. ‘I don't know if there's anything in the rules about pictures looking at pictures, but it doesn't feel right, somehow. Maybe it makes you go blind.'

‘No you don't.'

‘I didn't say anything.'

‘That rules you out, then. You're a limited company.'

‘No, please go on.' Maria grinned sheepishly. ‘I seem to have acquired this impish and frivolous personality from somewhere and I haven't quite got the hang of turning it off.'

‘Limitations.'

‘No, six. Sorry, yes, five. Go on.'

‘Great,' Maria replied. ‘What's it for?'

‘They can make lots of little beavers, for a start.'

‘Pleasant break for them, probably. Sorry, promise not to do it again.'

‘Tell me about it,' said Maria, with feeling.

‘Hm?'

‘Or detected, for that matter. Oh,
business,
I see, very good. Go on.'

Finally,
read the screen,
there's human beings. Obviously they're mortal, they're certainly fallible and limited as to what they can and can't do like you wouldn't believe. Mostly,
the screen added, using bold face to signify bemused incomprehension,
self-inflicted. Oh well, that's their business, I suppose. And some of them are subject to moral restraints, and some aren't. And there we are.

‘Absolutely,' Maria said, yawning. ‘That really was frightfully interesting. And now you'd probably better turn the traffic lights back on in Toronto, before they start jumping out of their cars and hitting each other with tyre irons.'

Maria nodded. ‘Very much. But you could have told me that without all this scientific stuff, and they wouldn't have a huge carbon-monoxide cloud threatening to poison half Ontario.'

‘Just a minute.' Maria's brow furrowed like a drawn curtain. ‘That can't be right. What about animals? You ever seen a cat? They pursue happiness.'

‘All right, then,' Maria persevered. ‘What about you? Don't say you cry yourself to sleep every time you double your pre-tax profit.'

‘Fair enough,' Maria conceded. ‘And I'll admit, you don't get to hunt much fun when you're a painting. But how about God? You're not going to tell me . . .'

The screen went blank and flashed some graphics before the next words appeared.
Do me a favour,
they read.
It may be that God pursues happiness, but only with a flyswat or a rolled-up newspaper firmly grasped in one hand. And as for His own happiness, just think about it, will you? Poor guy's omnipresent, never gets a moment's peace, lives His life entirely for others. You ever heard He's got a hobby? Collects stamps? Builds scale models of alternative universes out of matchsticks? Even His son was immaculately conceived. Even actuaries have more fun than that.

Maria shrugged. ‘So,' she said, ‘point taken. Only human beings pursue happiness. Actually, from what I've seen of them, they can't do it terribly well, or why are they all so dreadfully miserable?'

‘I suppose you're right,' Maria replied after a while. ‘They make things, but machines do that much better. They communicate—'

Maria sat for a while, staring at a point on the opposite wall a few inches above the top of the screen. ‘Fair enough,' she said. ‘In that case, let's go for it.'

‘Assuming,' she added thoughtfully, ‘we can ever find out what on earth it is.'

‘A
re you sure?' Artofel said. The man looked at him. ‘Well, yes,' he replied. ‘Of course,' he added. ‘One hundred per cent,' he concluded. ‘Why?'

‘It's just . . .' Artofel shrugged. ‘No, forget I spoke. Now then, have you decided which hymns you'd like?'

‘What were you just about to say?' the man demanded. He seemed a trifle put out, and maybe a little thoughtful.

‘Nothing, nothing. How about you, Tricia? Any particular hymns you'd set your heart on?'

‘I don't know any hymns, actually,' the young woman replied. ‘Except “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”. That's a hymn, isn't it? I mean, it's Christmassy, and Christmas is all religious, isn't it?'

‘In a sense,' Artofel replied. ‘Although, to be savagely frank with you, I've never really seen “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” quite as what you'd call a really sort of out-and-out, fully fledged wedding-type hymn. Speaking for myself, you understand.'

‘Oh,' replied the young woman, her eyes accusing him of making difficulties. ‘What about “Jingle Bells”, then? Surely “Jingle Bells” is a hymn. It's old, isn't it?'

There was a moment of deep silence while Artofel engaged the four-wheel drive on his diplomacy. ‘It's certainly more, um, in keeping than “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”,' he replied cautiously. ‘I mean, of the two I'd probably go for “Jingle Bells” every time. On the other hand, maybe we could explore some other possibilities together and find something you'd like even more. Okay?'

The young woman shrugged. ‘Don't mind,' she said. ‘I'm not that bothered one way or the other. So long as it's cheerful,' she added, frowning. ‘I know, how about “God Save the Queen”?'

‘That's in the hymn book, certainly,' Artofel replied, pursing his lips. ‘Which means you wouldn't have to have copies specially printed.'